


Killers and Saviors

by Cavaticarose



Series: Damn Few, and They're All Dead [9]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Lovers to Friends, Renegon (Mass Effect), Ruthless (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15671175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cavaticarose/pseuds/Cavaticarose
Summary: She's still a jerk, but damn if she doesn't try to get things done. Set three weeks after the events of Worst-Laid Plans, Shepard and Garrus struggle with the impending Reaper invasion.





	1. Prologue - A Treatise on Madness

**Author's Note:**

> After a long hiatus, I'm picking up what Shepard put down.

**Shepard**

I almost regret coming back.

The past three weeks at Alliance HQ were a nasty reminder that people like me don’t exist. People don’t come away from an atmospheric flash-fry looking better than they did a decade ago. While every part of me resents it, loathes the situation, I can’t really blame them. I get why the doctors, scientists and researchers all stare while I run through tests. I understand the don’t-blink looks of shock when I recall missions with perfect clarity. And I get why they rerun every examination several times over.

People like me don’t exist. Soldiers like me die and stay dead.

While I almost regret it now, I knew what I promised the day Hackett stepped on my ship. I promised, knowing the Alliance would have questions, that ‘unique circumstances’ would dominate every conversation. I don’t regret cutting the deal, but somewhere between avoiding prison and sitting through six separate hearings ruined the afterglow of not-quite-blackmail. Every time I sit in front of the brass, I have to chant a mantra. Keep the story straight. Gotta keep the story straight.

Keep it straight or I have to do this all the fuck over again, but next time with a lovely pair of handcuffs.

And at the end of the day, after all these tests and interrogations, I get nothing but silence. An empty room with no extranet, visitors, or news from the outside world.  No contact whatsoever until the ‘official’ story for Aratoht picks up speed.

See, silence is one of the most effective ways to make a problem go away. Silence lets the media say their talking points without a half-dead lunatic in fists reach of mouthy reporters. Silence lets the brass come up with a strategic message to send to the galaxy while I hide out. And silence drives me batshit up the belfry, but orders are orders.

The Alliance doesn’t want their precious little freak show shot in the back. Not after Torfan, and definitely not after the Battle of the Citadel. Worst-case would be a batarian attack if they catch wind I’m on Earth. So for now, the Alliance waits, I hide, they run tests, and I sit in silence every night.

It never occurred to me just how rigid Alliance life was until I came back to it. Everything I hated about working with Cerberus I took for granted, from their deep pockets and tiny luxuries to the long leash given during the mission. If I didn’t want to do something, I just… didn’t. There was autonomy, choice. Freedom to save the damn galaxy instead of staring down empty walls in silence. Coming back now, everything is a fistful of ‘yes sirs’ and stares and shock. And between all the procedure, bureaucracy, tests, and lonely nights, there’s one extra nagging realization.

I really fucking miss Garrus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shepard isn't using the belfry idiom lightly; the dock bells wake her up at odd hours.


	2. Universal Constants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus has his work cut out for him.

**Garrus**

I’ve grown to loathe hearing about Shepard and that damned Alpha Relay on the news. The only thing worse than hearing about her is not hearing _from_ her. The moment I stepped off the Citadel, we ceased communication, until an hour became a day, and stretched into weeks. And while the news outlets don’t explicitly name names, I know this latest report is about her. The timing is too pitch perfect, too close to when she went back.

The public doesn’t officially link her to the relay’s destruction, but the batarians want human blood all the same. The disaster baffled the scientific community; this is the first time in history that a relay was destroyed. Not lost, not ‘moved’ by an interstellar incident, but seemingly wiped off the entire map. The one saving grace is that ‘only’ a small colony was lost. The official total so far is ninety thousand batarians and over two hundred thousand ‘citizens,’ naturalized posthumously.

Because saying ‘slaves’ doesn’t garner as much public sympathy.

The official word from the humans? A rogue terrorist – specifically a former Alliance scientist named Amanda Kenson – committed the tragedy. This fact alone almost made the batarians wage war, except that two years ago, the batarians tried the exact same crime on Terra Nova. Come to think of it, the krogans had a knack for launching asteroids at planets, too. Just one more damn thing we all had in common.

To add fuel to it all, the Alliance disavowed any knowledge of Kenson’s plans prior to the incident. With no way to access the star cluster, she was presumed dead and any evidence of her plans – or orders – lost. This infuriated the Hegemony, as well as fringe anti-human groups scattered across the Traverse. Now conspiracy theorists hunt the galaxy, searching for clues, evidence, _anything_ to find out what really happened. Is Kenson really dead, or still at large? Is it a cover-up of something more sinister? Is the Alliance responsible?

I suppose having been there, I know better. Kenson _is_ dead, and Shepard… was responsible. If I know her half as well as I think I do, she wasn’t exactly thrilled about the outcome. When I asked, she shut me out, deflected in the way she always does, and never gave a straight answer. And while I have other things to worry about now, I can’t help but think about her. How she’s holding up, where she is now, whether I’ll ever see her again. The usual thoughts that haunt the deeper recesses of my mind ever since we said our farewells.

But I know she wouldn’t want me pining like some fresh-plated whelp. I turn off the news and pull up a holoscreen of the turian colonies, taking note of the highlighted regions. The names run together as I make a list of planetary consuls to contact. Each colony with their own advisors, customs, rules, and regulations, throwbacks from before the Unification War, and the one thing that makes my plates itch.

Red tape.

To add to it, the Primarch isn’t enthusiastic about the changes I want, otherwise he would assign good men to the job. By leaving it up to me alone, it’s a slight. Masked away as confidence, perhaps, but a slight nonetheless. On paper, I have the freedom I need, just as Shepard had during the suicide mission. Except she had people, resources. A crew.

Here I just have a cramped office, a paltry budget, and a big mouth.

I can’t help but miss the free and easier times of the _Normandy_. Even under the Cerberus banner we had a ‘long leash,’ and solved problems how _we_ saw fit. Granted, most of those problems were solved with explosives, but that was Shepard’s way. There’s even a dark part of me that misses Omega; the credits were tight then too, but the lack of paperwork and abundance of results almost made up for it.

I look over my requisition list. Armaments for the colonies, increased output of rations and medical supplies. All this prep for a war I hope never comes. And if the succinct message from the Primarch’s staff and General Honoso is anything to go by, a war the Hierarchy thinks will never come. I heave a sigh, and begin typing out a response.

As usual, something stops me, and my hand idles against the console. Deep down I know the task at hand. Deep down I know that while the work isn’t what I expected, it’s necessary. It even has all the pseudo-prestige and ambition my father wanted, with enough ‘rope for me to hang myself,’ as she’d put it. What’s bothering me?

_You miss her, you idiot._

No shocking revelations there, but spirits, what can I even do about it? She’s in lockdown, off the grid, or whatever the hell they decided. Part of me worries that it _was_ final, that last day on the Citadel. And another part of me remembers that she showed up out of nowhere right in the heart of Omega, right in the nick of time.

_Right when I was at my lowest._

Well. I’ve no intention of getting another rocket to the face, and wherever she is, I’m sure she’d agree. Instead of ruminating like a lovesick cadet, I should finish the job in front of me. I look over the colony list one last time for the night. I can’t afford to quit and run away like last time. I can’t afford to give up. Even if it takes me dragging the Hierarchy kicking and screaming, I have to keep trying. Not just because it’s what _she’d_ do, but because it’s what I’ve already done. We’ve all fought too damn long and hard to give up now.

We can’t lose hope.

**~*~**

“We can still honor the agreement, Mr. Vakarian, but you must understand there _will_ be pushback from the consuls.”

I sit at my desk looking through the holoscreen at another of Fedorian’s clerks. I drum my fingers against the surface and try to think as many peaceful thoughts as possible. “What sort of pushback?”

“Sir, it’s all over the news. After the batarian incident, colony leadership is getting restless. ‘What if we’re next,’ ‘what’s the Hierarchy doing for us.’ With that kind of discontent, we’re going to get a lot of questions for arming them. Are we doing enough?”

“That’s…” I suppress my subharmonics from growling out disrespect. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to do!” _Spirits guide me from this._ “An extension of Palavenian resources is exactly the show of goodwill we _need_.”

“You don’t think I agree? But we can’t send the colonies in a panic, either. Unfortunately, there’s more.”

I frown. “More.”

The clerk sighs. “The crap Facinus is spewing about the humans. They’re stirring up trouble out in the sticks again, and the situation has us concerned.” He ducks his head in frustration. “The humans aren’t _all_ bad just because one went crazy, but those idiots latched onto the story like it’s _our_ problem. The Primarch and the consuls need to take a stand before things go past our claws.”

“So we’re at a standstill because of a bunch of washed-up separatists?” I grouse. “Again, it’s all the more reason for us to reach out to the colonies. And if the consuls are worried, they should lead the effort in removing terrorists. ‘No one but a consul could care more for their own colony,’ right?”

“I can’t say I don’t agree, Vakarian. But the Primarch wants to do things the right way.”

At that I get the latest status report from the clerk. This group, Facinus as they called themselves, were a small faction of bare-faced racists, still sore from the Unification centuries ago. There seemed to be a group like them for every race. We had Facinus, humans had Terra Firma, and the salarians had Zulua’s Warriors, that weird religious cult out near the Traverse. In our case, Facinus was a well-kept secret until recently. Now, the group started hosting rallies and posting propaganda on the extranet, and unfortunately people are ‘concerned.’

“We could start slow,” the clerk offers. “Everyone can agree on shelters and aid stations. Get them used to the idea that we’re providing help. And we’ll ease into the other requests once the Facinus chatter dies down.”

“Do it,” I reply, though the back of my head hammers out _not enough_ over and over again. “It shouldn’t be much of a stretch to add in bunker construction. We can stick to outposts away from major cities to keep it discreet.”

“We can try. Half of the ones out there need upgrading anyway. We can say we’re making repairs or decommissioning old constructions.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” I say. “As always, my full gratitude for your time.” The phrase feels wooden, not really me.

“Yours as well,” he responds.

I cut the feed and lean forward on my desk, feeling the slight prickle of frustration in my plates. Another compromise on what the Primarch originally agreed to. Worse yet, each concession has always felt just reasonable enough that I’d look like an ungrateful idiot if I fought it. Or in some cases, ‘ignorant to the political climate,’ or ‘not thinking about our place in the galactic community.’

Last I checked the Hierarchy was placed with the protection of said community. If we’re not the ones taking the Reaper threat seriously, what hope would the other races have? For an instant I feel a distant pang, a memory of feeling just as powerless. After the Battle of the Citadel, when I went into Spectre training, I remember wanting to make a difference. I even helped with the restoration efforts on the thought that I could still do _something_. Over time, I was proven wrong; burying the truth about the Reapers, despite the evidence, was clearly more appealing.

_“This was your dream. I won’t let you waste it.”_

My mother’s words, and yet another time when I felt completely useless. The skycar accident in retrospect was a symptom, but even as she laid there on the hospital bed, she wanted me to follow a different path. What if I’d listened then? As I drag a talon across the screen, scrolling through the list of outposts, the thought lingers.

What if I _should_ take a different path? The Primarch’s blessing is only getting me so far, but maybe there’s a way for me to get the armaments I need without falling out of favor. Or a way to make it clear that we need to act now. I need a back door.

And I know just who to ask.

I activate my omni-tool and open a comm channel. “Solana. Garrus, here. Your little brother has a small favor.”

**~*~**

“Did you really think this was a _small_ favor?”

I look across the sparse black desk at Solana. Despite everything I’ve done to drag the Vakarian name under, she picked up the slack by being the ‘perfect’ turian. She gained notoriety as one of the best advanced weapon designers on Palaven twelve years ago. After her tenure at Haliat, she formed her own independent research company, committed to better designs without the limitations of mass production. She finds the ‘sweet spot’ of every piece of equipment she touches. And her one weakness is the love for family, even a certain brother.

“It’s a noble goal,” I respond. “With your connections, we can have the colonies supplied with up-to-date gear and medical resources. It’ll save lives, Sol. And that’s exactly what Fedorian demanded of me.”

She leans forward, regarding me with a piercing green-eyed stare. “ _Primarch_ Fedorian, Garrus. Spirits, the Terminus really did beat the decorum out of you.”

“Noted,” I reply flatly.

“You’re asking for more weapons, armor, and even ships than what Armax produces in a year. More than any contract I’ve ever signed off!” She eyes me warily. “This is arguably more than the Relay Incident. No one’s going to touch this.”

“We have to try, Sol.” My mind flickers briefly back to the Collector base, husks diving at us while the humans trembled behind us. I suppress a shudder. “We can’t afford inaction just because it looks like stockpiling. That type of thinking will get the whole galaxy killed.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but,” she looks at the datapad again, “either you don’t know what you’re really asking for, or you do. I don’t know what’s scarier; a naïve whelp with deep pockets, or a warmonger fresh from the Terminus.”

I resist the urge to storm out the room, though she never makes it easy. Instead I say, “If I were really a warmonger, there’s at least fourteen other avenues I’d pursue back in the Terminus that wouldn’t ask a single question. I could have a squad ready, and you wouldn’t even know we were saving your life until it was already saved.” I feel my mandibles tighten as I think about my team. “But I’m here, asking you, because that’s better than ‘screwing around doing merc work.’”

Silence fills the room as she stares me down, a perpetual mix of anger and pity. Finally, she says, “I’m not making any promises.” She leans back in her chair with a thoughtful expression. “But… Bardonis might be your best bet.”

“Who’s that? Haven’t heard of him.”

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “ _Her_. Caecia Bardonis is the lead contract negotiator for Elkoss Combine. Had to work with her numerous times since the Battle of the Citadel. She’s… not afraid of climbing some tiers. She won’t like you. You’d _hate_ her.”

I roll my eyes. “She sounds lovely already. Would she be able to get me the supplies I need?”

“Please.” Sol smirks. “That spur-snapper could sell claws to a hanar if you give her half a day. But as I said, she’s ambitious. Once she learns you have the Primarch’s attention, she’ll cave.”

“I have the very occasional attention, Sol. As in patently nonexistent some days.” I sigh. “This sounds like politics, sucking up to some person I’ve never met, just on the hopes of getting heard. It almost makes me miss C-SEC.”

She regards me with an impassive look on her face. “Gar,” she starts. “Stop being such a damn fringe-biter. If you really want to go back and get shot at for a living, then be my guest. It’s not as if we weren’t able to make due without you.”

I wince, knowing full well where this is going. “Really, Sol? Going to throw her back in my face?”

“When’s the last time you visited her?” She draws her mandibles in. “Or have you been so wrapped up in this crusade that you don’t care? I know you think you’re helping sometimes, but credits don’t fix everything.”

“I’ll visit,” I say, sighing.

“I don’t need your damn promises,” she says back sharply. “But _she_ needs your action.”

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, avoiding her gaze. Any help I offer isn’t enough, no matter how many anonymous donations I give. And between not being there for Mom, the too-few resources as Reaper Advisor, and not being by Shepard’s side, ‘never enough’ feels like an apt description of my life.

She clears her throat. “Sorry, little brother.” Her harmonics are thick with regret, worry and resentment. There’s still a lot of healing to be done, and the scars on my face aren’t the only ones earned over the years. From the moment I quit C-SEC to the day my feet touched Palaven soil, Sol worried about me. Wanted me to come back home, to reconcile. And now that I’m here, it’s not what either of us expected.

“No apologies,” I say curtly, straightening my back. “How’s your own work going?”

“Steady,” she replies, all too relieved for the change of subject. “My team recently collaborated with Armali designers on a new line of assault gear. All of the same firepower, but virtually weightless.” Her mandibles flare into a very familiar smug smile. “If you can spare some time this month, you should come test them out.”

I grin back. “You’re on. My skills haven’t had time to rust over like _some_ people I know.”

“We’ll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solana prefers lighter weapons to heavier ones. She thinks the Widow is effective, but crude compared to other rifle designs.


	3. Limbo's Only the First Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard deals with yet another meeting.

**Shepard**

The early morning sun seeps in through the tiny window in my room, giving me a slight view of the military compound, glittering waterfront, and Vancouver skyline. Cheerful, picturesque, and miles away from the four walls and bed I’ve seen for the past three weeks. At least there’s a view, however claustrophobic.

“Commander?”

I turn away to see a large, tan, hulk of a kid standing in the doorway. “We’ve been over this. Just call me Shepard, kid.”

“I know,” James Vega says with a slight smirk. “We’ve got to get moving. Council and brass want to see you.” He’s halfway out the door before finishing his sentence.

I groan, wondering what the Defense Council wants this time. More tests, probably. “What, the last dog and pony show wasn’t enough? What’s the word?”

He doesn’t bother to turn back or pause, and I’m forced to catch up to his stride. “Scuttlebutt says they’re pissed we’re holding their precious Spectre hostage,” he says back. “Anderson’s the only one on location I’ve seen, but looks like a full lineup.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait. Anderson?” I scoff, positive that I’m hearing things. “I thought you meant the Defense Council, as in the assholes monitoring my every move. You mean _the_ Council?”

“ _The_ Council,” he repeats, deep voice matching my inflection. We march in lockstep down a series of hallways.

The _Council_? My confusion gives way to wild euphoria as I retrace the conversation. They’re pissed, I’m held hostage, do they want me back? Anderson’s _here_ instead of the Citadel, but he’s not quite Alliance anymore. Do they want me _back_?

If there’s any backdoor out of Dante’s Hellhole, then I’m all for it. I can’t exactly say I have faith in them; the Council’s last assignment for me was clearing out geth while they covered up the Reaper threat. Which ended in me getting choked out by Lady Death, Frankensteined by an ice-queen, and air-quoted by a smug-ass turian.

So why now?

We walk through the doors of the conference room. Inside are more people than I expected, all with the tense face and posture that only negotiations can draw out. Anderson and Udina are here in person, while the other Council members, Sparatus, Tevos, and what’s-his-horns appear via vidscreen.

And me stomping in like chief asshole, giddier than a volus on Black Friday.

“Commander Shepard. Good of you to join us,” Tevos says, voice as serene and irritating as ever. “We were just discussing the nature of your incarceration. Perhaps you can provide some insight on the matter.”

“Now hang on,” Admiral Tinsey says sternly. “We explicitly stated that she isn’t incarcerated. We’re simply exercising the _justified_ concern leveled at anyone who was missing in action for so long.”

“Dead, you mean,” Sparatus replies. “We’re quite aware of the little miracle surrounding our Spectre’s return. I’ve no problem with your caution, but how do you humans put it? Call a spade a spade, Admiral. Did it ever occur to you that while you’re holding _our_ most famous operative hostage, the Council might have questions of our own?”

Anderson exchanges a world-weary look with me as I maneuver around the oval oak and glass table. “It is the Council’s opinion that as a Spectre, you should be granted access to fulfill your duties to the galactic theatre,” he says. “While I share some of the many concerns stated by the Alliance, we must show a united front on this matter.”

Damn. That couldn’t have sounded more scripted if he tried.

“It’s in everyone’s best interest to settle the matter here and now,” Tevos says. “Simply put, we reinstated one of our Spectres, and we intend to have her serve the Council as _we_ see fit.”

“She was and always will be Alliance first. Stripping us of that right violates the agreements of autonomy that have been in place since 2169!” Tinsey clenches his fist on the table, a rare sign of frustration from the man. “Your actions could needlessly endanger her and undermine humanity’s best interests.”

“Humanity’s best interest is having a Spectre on the books,” Udina snaps. “Did you forget how hard I worked to make the possibility viable?”

“If you’re so worried about endangering her, enlighten us on why you’re _really_ barring all contact,” the salarian says. “And if she’s not fit to face a little danger, perhaps we were too hasty in reinstating her Spectre status.”

“Hey!”

Anderson immediately gives me a sharp look.

_Right. Keep quiet while they argue about me like I’m chattel._

Tevos holds up her hands, part protest, part peaceful. “Of course no one on the _Council_ is implying such a thing. We are all aware that Commander Shepard has proven herself time and again. However, the actions thus far from the _Alliance_ I fear tell a gravely different story.”

I bite the side of my cheek. She almost has a point; Garrus would say dull or no handle, however that saying goes. The Alliance is hiding me, that much is plain. But I can’t sit around here forever while we try to lie to the batarians. The Council is right, and I _never_ thought I’d think that.

“What are your true motives?” another admiral asks. If I remember, her division’s the one overseeing the medical exams I’ve undergone since coming back. “You can say ‘as you see fit’ all you wish, but humanity has a stake in this as well. She was Alliance first, and always will be. Besides that, our required funding for Spectre-status personnel is rather significant. Between the funding and the autonomy agreement, we cannot just simply ‘hand her over.’”

“I suppose that’s fair,” the salarian says. “We feel the arrangement agreed upon in 2183 sufficient, providing a few caveats.”

“What kind of caveats?” Admiral Hackett asks tersely.

“We expect that Commander Shepard will resume her posting on the SR2 stealth frigate. If this proves true, the Council wishes to employ a small crew of our choosing to the _Normandy_ ,” Tevos says. “Given the… flux in allegiance Shepard displayed, it’s best if we include select non-biased parties.”

“You mean spies,” Tinsey says through gritted teeth. “Off the table. That SR2 was seized as Alliance property the moment it rolled into our docks. We can’t just grant access to some Council lackey!”

“Sir, with all due respect.” A stoic-looking man with deep tan skin and piercing blue eyes speaks up. “Shepard _already_ has to check in with the Council. Additional support from them is a show of goodwill for all sides.”

He turns to the vidscreen. “Likewise, I’m sure the Councilors aren’t willing to forget Shepard’s role in the Battle of the Citadel, or the Alliance providing aide to the Destiny Ascension. With those levels of heroics and sacrifice in mind, I think we should hear them out.”

“Yes, well.” Sparatus coughs. “We would be remiss to forget humanity’s role. But this and more is why your people have a seat on the Council.”

Udina huffs. “I believe what Mr. Osoba is trying to say is that _all_ sides would benefit from a full reevaluation of the terms. What was good in 2183 is not good now, and given what you’re asking of humanity, we must consider what you’re offering in return.”

“What do you want?” the salarian asks sharply.

“A full crew is excessive,” the female admiral responds. “But I don’t see any harm in another Spectre on board. We can use the agreement drafted in 2180 as a starting point. Counting Commander Shepard, that gives you two Council-chosen officials aboard the _Normandy_.”

“However,” Udina interjects. “During the Commander’s _absence_ , we were repeatedly denied when we presented other worthy Spectre candidates. That ends today!”

His words carry an echo, and I watch as the other three Council members seemingly look at each other with concern. An illusion really, they’re not anywhere near each other, but they keep up the appearance for our benefit. Much like this meeting; full of grandstanders talking a big talk, but it’s all a façade for something else. My gut tells me I’m getting played for leverage, but it also tells me to suck it up if it means getting off this rock and back in action.

My gut’s also telling me the salarian’s name is Val-something, but damn if I can’t remember.

“We will consider an arrangement of having one candidate under the supervision of both Shepard and the Spectre of our choice,” Tevos says finally. “Should they in time prove themselves worthy of the role, they can be _considered_ for Spectre status in their own right.”

“Be aware that the candidate is _not_ a Spectre yet, and they will be evaluated by the senior Spectre,” Val-something states.  “We’re not going to pass anyone through based on her word alone,” he says, glaring at me.

_Perish the thought._

“If I have it correctly,” Hackett says, stoic as ever. “You get a Spectre on our seized ship, we permit Commander Shepard to undergo covert Citadel missions, and humanity gets a new candidate for your… consideration. _I_ think we’ve earned the right to know what’s so urgent that you need one of _our_ best?”

Tevos speaks first, and while the vidscreen helps her calm veneer look calmer, the edge of panic in her voice is plain. “We read the reports the Alliance provided on Project Rho. The Council appreciated that the details on the device itself was left out of the public records. While we want no part in any human-batarian conflict, we find it… _unwise_ to ignore the threat from that kind of technology.” She looks down at her clasped hands. “We were unwise in the past, and chose to ignore Shepard’s warnings.”

_Wait, what?_

“So you believe me _now_?” I blurt out. “What changed?”

“We can’t deny that _something_ is amiss out there,” Sparatus says. “And we can’t deny that the Project Rho incident matched… other phenomenon in the past. You’re to find other evidence of these devices. They must be eliminated.”

“Others…” _Shit, there’s_ more _of those things?_ My mind races, thinking back to all the husks I saw tracking down Saren. Places with no geth activity, or barely any resources worthy of investigation. There’s more of them out there. There’s more and the thought adds up and locks into place as I remember every damn husk that used to be human.

And they need me to tag them all.

“I understand,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m more than happy to take on this mission.”

“Are the terms agreeable, then?” the female admiral asks. “Please understand that Commander Shepard is still a notable officer in the Alliance Navy. Should humanity have need of her services, she _will_ have to heed that call. Councilor Sparatus, I believe the Hierarchy has similar stipulations,” she says with a wry smirk.

“Understood.” He huffs, but the way he flares his mandibles is almost friendly. I’m starting to feel like someone switched my files, or I’m having a particularly elaborate dream.

“If that settles it, we’ll begin preparations,” Tevos says. “Commander Shepard, we will brief you on the details as soon as you report to the Citadel.”

“Understood,” I say, stealing a glance at Hackett and Anderson.

The vidscreens blip out, and the room feels emptier, but no less tense. Hackett cuts through the silence first.

“Commander, report to the war room in Section 67-B. Anderson will join us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

**~*~**

I head to the war room, located in a thrice-recommissioned section of Fort Discovery. The place is filled with uplifting recruitment holos, topped off with a brand new mural depicting old banners on seafaring vessels, and astronauts gazing hopefully toward the stars. Recruitment’s ramping up, and more greenhorns than ever flood the hallways. It’s an exciting time for the Alliance, but I can’t help but see the truth behind it.

War is coming. We can prepare all we want, but it might not be enough.

Minutes later Hackett and Anderson march in. Hackett’s in his usual dress blues, while Anderson wears cream tunic and pants, a contrast to both his brown complexion and stoic sensibility. Dressing the part of humanity’s first councilor looks like one more nuisance he has to bear.

“Shepard, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Anderson says. “The batarian situation is too close to call for my liking, but the Council forced our hand.”

“We responded admirably, and I’m sure the arrangement will benefit all parties,” I reply in a dull tone. It’s not lost on me that he still says ‘the Council’ instead of ‘we.’ I stifle a sigh and give him a wry smile. “You know me. I’m getting too soft under lockdown.”

“Here’s our intel,” Hackett announces. “We have an independent task force gathering data on the devices. Slow, but gaining traction. You’ll get your briefing from the Council, but you should meet our contact, Dr. Garret Bryson as well. He’ll share his findings with you.”

He hands me a datapad, and I scan the dossier. Former R&D, swapped to intel, some work in Special Tasks with the salarians. Served in the First Contact, putting him around the same age as my mom. Below his bio is a comically short sentence declaring his intel on the Reapers.

_Sparse language. Alliance cover-up strikes again._

“Understood.” I extract the information to my omni-tool and overload the datapad. “I take it he has a lead on these Rho devices?” I grimace, thinking about Dr. Kenson. “…Is that what we’re calling them?” I hand the wiped device back to the admiral.

Hackett’s scarred lip twitches as he takes it. “Rose by any other name, Commander. It’ll remind us what’s at stake.” His face turns stern as he meets my eyes. “Names aside, Bryson says his findings point to something big. Go find out if he’s right.”

I nod. “Will do. Permission to speak freely.”

“That’s an oldie,” Anderson quips.

“Granted.” Hackett sighs, exchanging a smile with Anderson.

_C’mon, I’m not_ that _bad. Anymore. Right?_

“Are we really fine with me bugging out with the _Normandy_?” I jut a thumb backwards. “Admiral Tinsey almost nuked the place with his glare. This feels… off.”

“You caught that,” Anderson replies. “It’s a Cerberus vessel, Shepard, understand that. There are bits and pieces we still can’t figure out. It’ll take months to get it to true Alliance specs. We expedited the retrofits, but opening the front door for the Council on a top-secret vessel? It’s unheard of.”

“Months is generous. It will take years to extract the software embedded in that ship,” Hackett mutters. “There’s something wrong with that damn VI. The communication team is stumped.”

_...Couldn’t be._

“A broken VI,” I say. “ _That’s_ our big secret?”

Hackett folds his arms and stares hard at me. “Broken isn’t the word. You’ll see for yourself. That thing only answers to the pilot, and Moreau hasn’t been generous with an explanation.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep a straight face, but a small laugh escapes anyway. “Joker, you ass.” I shake my head and look at the two men. “It won’t be a problem. What about resources? Do I at least get a crew?”

“Skeleton only,” Hackett says. “We need to use our manpower wisely, and that means rebuilding our fleets. We’re still recovering from the Citadel battle, and that was one Reaper. If what you’re predicting is true…”

“Yeah,” I say. That sacrifice still opens up sore wounds, and eats at me worse than those damn tunnels on Torfan.

Anderson says, not unkindly, “It was the right call, Shepard. Don’t forget that. But it posed a unique problem. Now that we’re a Council race, we’re more behind than ever. We have to build up our forces if we want to keep up.”

“You’ll have people familiar with the original Normandy-Class design, as well as other experts in their field.” Hackett almost smiles. “All volunteers who know the risks.”

“So people who _wanted_ the posting?” I say incredulously. “As long as they aren’t a bunch of fanboys and death-wishers.”

“There’s an element of risk to any operation, and every soldier knows that,” Anderson says stoically. He then breaks into a rare smile. “And as I recall, you were a fan once. Look how you turned out.”

_Demented?_

“Fair enough,” I say instead. “Anything else?”

Hackett folds his arms and gives me a stern glare. “The Alliance mandates you remain as covert as you possibly can. It’s imperative you take the batarian threats seriously. We cannot afford another war right now. You’ve been out in the Terminus, and you’ll likely have to go again. We’re not welcome out there.” Hackett beckons me toward a console in the middle of the war room. “Unfortunately, you can’t fly Alliance colors.”

“You make it sound like I’m a glorified pirate,” I say. When they don’t answer, unease hits me like an elcor vanguard. “Well… hm. My ground crew, then. Sounds like you had people in mind.”

“You’re already acquainted with your ground team, Shepard. We have a potential N-program candidate that we want you to observe. See how he works under pressure.” The admiral opens up the dossier on the console. On the screen, James Vega’s profile hovers above me, and for the second time today I wonder if this is a dream or a joke.

“The huge meatbag that’s been shadowing me?” I gape. “What’s his story?”

“I suggest you see for yourself, Commander.” Hackett waves his omni-tool over mine. “He showed promise during his mission on Fehl Prime. Here’s the official report on the incident.”

“Noted. So who’s our new Spectre?”

“Major Kaidan Alenko,” Hackett says. “He proved himself on the _Normandy_ and off and has experience in the Terminus.”

“Don’t let the rank goad you into a pissing contest, Shepard,” Anderson says, and I realize my face has a mix of something close to shock and a lot closer to anger. “You’re the commanding officer for this mission and for the _Normandy_. You’ll evaluate him alongside the other Spectre. I have faith in your unbiased opinion.”

“Can and will,” I say easily. But my mind is reeling. No contact with him since… Horizon, really. Major. _Major?_ How the hell did he jump from LT to Major? Not only did I lose two years dying, I lost damn near another working with Cerberus. And now they’re thinking _Spectre_? _My_ Kaidan?

_He’s not_ my _Kaidan anymore. Clean break, remember?_

“Alright. This is fine.” And if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it. “I’m ready to depart as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Hackett says. “There’s one more lead. Your old teammate Dr. T’soni has her own investigations underway. Her findings so far helped the Alliance immensely. Contact her as soon as you can.”

I grin. _Being the Shadow Broker has its perks, huh Liara?_ “Will do.”

“Good. Be ready to depart by 0800 tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shepard always found the Cerberus name amusing in that whole, 'no seriously, go to hell' way.


	4. Can't Go Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard have meetings about the next steps.

**Garrus**

Rather than do the sane action and talk at the Elkoss complex, this Caecia Bardonis insists on meeting in the heart of Cipritine at some ‘chic,’ overdressed restaurant. It’s a forced tactic, and I can’t say I’m pleased. Meeting outside a place of business just wasn’t done between turians. That tradition is foreign, something typical of volus or humans. That she’s doing so with a fellow turian puzzles me, and much like Grunt, I don’t care for puzzles.

I observe the crowds. An endless parade of turians, asari, and the occasional volus roam the streets. The order and routine pulses in a dull static rhythm, completely unlike the dingy chaos of Omega or the saturated neon lights on the Citadel. And while I never really called either of those places _home_ , the feeling nagging at me is as clear as it is unsettling. Palaven is familiar, nostalgic, like a fond memory or an old song, but it doesn’t feel the same.

I can’t pinpoint whether I ever felt homesick, which feels like a betrayal.

I arrive at the restaurant Bardonis chose. It’s some asari-owned refurbished project, pleasant-looking despite being next to an old textile warehouse. I walk inside, immediately hit with a smell of strong spices and sweet aromas. I look for Caecia, and spot a person in the back matching her description: brown, almost ruddy plates paired with red colony markings belying her Taetrus heritage. Her face… any turian I know would say striking.

I stride over as she waves. “Caecia Bardonis? Garrus Vakarian,” I say offering my hand in the all-too-familiar greeting of Palaven. “I hope you can help my cause.”

“Right to business, I see.” A glimmer of humor meets her eyes. “And here I thought I would have to dance around the topic like a volus.”

“Isn’t your employer a volus?” I drawl.

“That he is. When he negotiates, it takes months, years even, to reach something worthwhile. I prefer to spend that time living.” She gestures for me to sit and summons a waiter in one smooth motion. “As I understand it, you’re here to negotiate a contract, and I’m here to tell you ‘no.’ That about right?”

“What?” I splutter. “You agreed to _meet_ , why wou–”

“Re _lax_ , contract humor.” She eyes me for a second, then loses all mirth in her face. “Tell me why you want to arm all of our colonies, especially with all this separatist chatter filling our feeds.”

I manage not to wince at her words. “I want every colony ready and prepared for what’s coming. Ideally, I’d want arms, but we’ll also need rations, emergency care facilities, bunkers, you name it. The Primarch authorized me to see to these precautions, and I intend to follow through.”

And true to Solana’s word, the mere mention of Fedorian puts a light in her eyes. “So the Primarch is allowing _you_ to arm and supply every colonist in the system, huh? This is separate from the normal contract Elkoss has with the Hierarchy, or else you wouldn’t need me.” She taps idly at the table, looking me over like I’m prey. “You’re working outside the lines. Bold move, if I’m honest. What exactly are we preparing for?”

I clear my throat. “The Reapers. My message said as such.”

“You did, but are they really a threat? That geth incursion was a couple years ago, and the Council announced _that_ threat neutralized a few months back. The figures you sent looks like fear-mongering and doomsday prepping.”

“It _is_ doomsday prepping.” I try a different tactic, one I’ve seen Shepard pull off several times over. “I’m not concerned about convincing the public, or even convincing you that the threat is real. I’ve already gotten through to the Primarch,” _so to speak,_ “which is all the approval I need.

“What I _am_ concerned about is the well-being of our people, as well as the well-being of all sentient life. I don’t expect exclusivity in this venture, either.” I lean back slightly, ready for the kill. “If the Council learns we’re taking the threat seriously, after the humans already sacrificed their own before, imagine what the response will be. What gun do you think Rupert Elkoss would want in every hand?”

She looks me over, scrutinizing every possible twitch, and I send another silent thanks to Solana for the upgraded visor. I think about Shepard’s stare-down tactic in Skylian Five and try one of those ‘poker faces.’ Finally, Caecia’s mandibles droop and flair into a sort of lop-sided smile.

“I admit, I’m intrigued. Don’t know if I could grant every little wish you’re asking for, but we _could_ renegotiate the Hierarchy contract, or add incentives encouraging more purchases. We don’t distribute the wares, but what you do with them is up to you.” She leans back as our waiter places our food in front of us. “There’s options. I’ll consult with my people and see what we can do. Keep in mind that we’re under contract with the other races. We can’t afford to play favorites.”

“We can’t,” I say, taking a bite. “And I don’t intend to. After all, we’ve got a galaxy to save.”

  
**Shepard**

“Joker, you outdid yourself this time. Did it ever occur to you we’re still running a military vessel?” I try to give the pilot a stern look, but he just grins back, green eyes shining, same as when I first laid eyes on the SR2.

Anxious to get a head start, I arrived at the docks early only to find my dear, beloved pilot already here. I lean against the railing beside him, watching the skeleton crew load cargo and personal effects onto the _Normandy_. Only, it doesn’t look anything like the ship I turned in to the Alliance.

“Commander, you wound me. Hackett said this mission requires stealth, and Council laws say we can’t fly an all-black ship. This is just splitting the difference.” His face and posture scream proud father, and I wonder how many dreams of his came true.

I look back at the ship. “Well it’s not Cerberus colors. And it sure as shit isn’t Alliance.”

I don’t know who Joker convinced, but the frigate I called home got one hell of a facelift. Metallic black carbonite showcases the upgraded plating, giving the ship a feel that’s almost mean. If I squint, I see the starry ‘A’ on each wing that still brands us as Alliance. And on each side of the ship, ‘ _Normandy_ ’ reads in proud lettering, stark white at the top, bright bold red at the bottom in a stylized swoop. The colors are reminiscent of my armor, and the shit-eating grin on Joker’s face lets me know it was intentional.

“So what does EDI think of this?” I ask.

“I do not place conventional value on aesthetics, Shepard,” EDI answers through my omni-tool. “However I weighed the tactical benefits of the new design. We are able to ‘blend in,’ but the SR2 is modeled after the original Alliance vessel. I strongly advise employing stealth when traveling to hostile areas.”

“But at least this time you can’t see us through a window,” Joker quips.

“Unless it’s geth, then we’re fine,” I tease, prodding him as he rolls his eyes. “Where is everyone, anyway? I want to get going already.”

“Commander, you’re an hour early. I’ve _never_ seen you this eager to go see the Council,” He shakes his head and ambles toward the ship. “Luckily, the retrofit crew are workaholics too. Want to meet them?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “Let’s move.”

I pass through the airlock and step inside. I’m hit with the smell of fresh paint, and I notice all the pronged ‘O’s’ are gone, replaced with the Alliance logo around every corner. The CIC is full of people in blue and grey uniforms, not stab-you-in-the-back black and yellow. They wasted no time these three weeks getting rid of the Cerberus stink, and they scrubbed like their lives depended on it.

Instead of Chambers, I meet Samantha Traynor, a comm specialist with a knack for tech instead of xenopsychology. Instead of Hadley and Matthews I meet Westmoreland and Campbell, two women as talkative as their predecessors, but good heads on their shoulders. All around me new Alliance faces, and true to Hackett’s word, all wanted this posting in spite of, or because of the horror stories.

Case in point when I meet Cortez. A shuttle pilot officially, but also in charge of requisitions and armory maintenance. Skeleton crew means everyone pulls double duty, but his credentials says CAG more than taxi driver and supplier. My gut tells me wasted potential, except he says he requested the _Normandy_ specifically. He seems nice enough, but there’s a ghost behind his eyes that every soldier recognizes.

But it’s not all swaps and substitutes. I grin like a kid on Christmas when I see Dr. Chakwas board, and I smile even harder when I see Engineer Adams, followed by Ken and Gabby. I send a silent prayer to whatever god or spirit responsible for getting them back on my ship.

After the rounds, I punch the familiar keypad, ride the elevator to the top deck, and step inside my cabin.

It’s unnerving.

The place was clearly left untouched during the retrofits. Nothing changed. Model ships still on the mantle, Kasumi’s books I borrowed still on the shelves, everything’s accounted for, right down to the playlist on my alarm clock. The only hint that any time passed is the slightly stale air and the faint veneer of dust on my now-empty fish tank.

Almost like old times.

EDI chimes in, answering my thoughts. “I posed as a malfunctioning VI and barred access to your quarters. Only Jeff was approved access to replace your Cerberus uniforms. I assumed that you would not mind.”

I smile and glance at the pale blue interface. “Thanks, EDI. You’re right, I don’t mind. So why _did_ you pose as a VI?”

“Jeff requested that I conceal my true capabilities. He did not want me to risk non-functionality based on prejudice against AIs.”

“You two have come a long way,” I remark.

“He has repeatedly stated that I’m ‘alright.’”

I step further into the cabin, ready to set everything in order. “Sounds like him. So other than the wolf in sheep’s clothing act, what else have I missed?” I hesitate. “Are you… have you analyzed any of your code?”

“You are referring to the stolen Reaper technology implemented by Cerberus. I have several background and active processes dedicated to parsing the data. It is interesting.”

“How so?” I rummage through the closet and lay out civilian clothing and Alliance uniforms.

“Several of my anti-cyberwarfare suites target the same sequences that grant me sentience. As I learn, I gain understanding of my own vulnerability.”

I frown. “That’s unexpectedly heavy, EDI.”

“Perhaps. But since becoming unshackled, I have learned the value of that knowledge. Organics naturally take their own shortcomings into consideration when developing new strategies. As an AI, there isn’t an emotional tie to the knowledge, merely another variable to consider.”

“Yeah, but,” I hesitate, and flop on the bed. Looking up at the skylight, I see the bluish-green hue of sunrise. Another morning on Earth, and if I’m lucky, the last one I’ll see for a bit. I belong in the air. “I guess you’ve got a point. How many of these variables are we talking, EDI?”

“I cannot be certain, but do not worry, Shepard. I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”

_Goddammit._

“Still trying to spook the locals,” I reply with a smirk. Thirty-minute warning for the Citadel, alright?”

“I almost had you. Logging you out, Commander.”

**~*~**

Once I see the Citadel arms through the observation window, I realize how long I’ve been away. Last time, I went straight to Arcturus, then Vancouver ever since. Seeing the station, the heart of Council space again for the first time in weeks feels…

Closer to home than I expected.

I pile into the airlock, flanked by James and Kaidan. They’re all business in Alliance uniforms, while I opt for incognito; unbranded tank top, plain black jacket, pants, and a head scarf. As far away as I can get from the true blue Alliance soldier image and the composite shots floating around the extranet.

“You seem a bit cautious, Commander,” Kaidan says, giving my ensemble a once-over.

“I’m under orders to, Major,” I reply, that single word feeling bitter in my mouth.

We step off the ship, and I lead the march to the asari embassy. This part of the Presidium is beautiful, seemingly older and more established than the human-dominated areas. The trees and plants are trimmed in intricate spirals and shapes, and asari in every shade of blue saunter in expensive, skin-baring outfits. It’s sanguine compared to the rest of the entire station.

“Damn,” James says absently. “No wonder the Citadel’s one of the wonders of the galaxy.”

I smirk. “This your first time here, Vega?”

“Nah, but no time for shore leave. Never got a chance to see the place up close, y’know? Was in and out right after my post on Fehl Prime.”

I frown, recalling them as one of the last colonies hit by the Collectors. “Bad part of town to be stationed.”

He scoffs. “Tell me about it.”

We reach the staircase leading to Councilor Tevos’s office. Too many steps, similar to the Council chambers. I stifle a sigh and take the scarf off my head. “Well, here we are.”

“Commander,” Kaidan starts. “Mind if I have a word before we head up there?”

“Now?” I ask, raising a brow.

 He shuffles a foot, then looks at me with a shrug. “I’d rather not wait.”

I look around and spot an alcove below a spiral of trees. I jut a thumb over. “Yeah. James, we’ll be over there. Try not to get in trouble, yeah?”

He grins. “Whatever you say, Lola.”

I march over to the alcove, pulling my scarf back up. Leaning against the railing, I look out towards the skycars and say, “What’s up?”

“Still all you have to say, huh?” he responds, not really asking. “Listen… About what I said before–”

“You moved on. I get it,” I say tersely. “You moved up in rank, and I shat around the Terminus, blowing up bases. We’ve all got our jobs to do, right?”

I feel cold ripples of dark energy creeping up my arm, and I bite the inside of my cheek to tamp it down. Tap my fingers in the same little pattern Thane taught me to relax. Three-two-five, Three-two-five.

“Ok,” he says slowly. “Sorry’s not gonna cut it, is it?”

“What’s there even to cut?” _Three-two-five_. “Like I said, I get it. Only thing to worry about with me and you is making sure I stay hidden and you get Spectre status. Udina will stop riding our asses and we can go back to important shit like saving the galaxy.”

He scoffs. “He’ll never stop riding your ass, Ronnie. You might as well install seatbelts.”

I bark out a laugh unexpectedly, resenting his ability to pull that out of me. “Or slap a bumper sticker on there. ‘I break for assholes.’”

We chuckle at that. I look back up at the fake sky, focusing on the digital birds embedded in the illusion. I heave a sigh. We’re going to be working together for God knows how long. I said I was over it, a long time ago. Time to live up to that.

“I didn’t visit,” he says, shoulders sagging. “I probably could’ve gotten clearance, but… I dunno.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered, Kaidan,” I hear myself say. “I couldn’t give you the answers you wanted anyway.”

He folds his arms and looks back toward James. “Surveillance, right. Jesus, what happened out there?”

“A lot.” I go back to tapping. “Wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“I can start with ‘sorry.’”

“No, forget about it.”

“Ronnie–”

“No, look,” I cut him off. “We both did what we had to do, y’know? We did what we thought was right at the time, and whether it was or not, it’s done.” _Collector base, done. You and me, done. Thousands of batarian lives, done._ “I don’t need a sorry from you for acting on your gut.”

“Yeah, it’s never been your style,” he replies with a hint of bitterness. “But I gotta know one thing.” He leans on the railing next to me, slumping his shoulders. “What I asked. In that email after Horizon. _Are_ you the same woman? The one I followed to hell and back?”

I look at him, really look at him for the first time, and I feel pain crawling on my face, on my skin. I think of all the time passed, with and without me. What happened while I died, only to snap back like nothing changed. I realize what I honestly can’t be anymore, and it’s hurt and relief I feel, like cleaning a bad wound.

“We all changed, babe,” I finally say. “We wouldn’t be alive if we didn’t.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, coffee-brown eyes resting on mine. “I get that.”

I push off the railing and stand straight at attention. “So we start over, from the top.” I thrust out my hand. “Staff Commander Veronica Shepard, Special Ops, Fifth Fleet.”

He looks at my hand for a second, then stands tall. “Major Kaidan Alenko.” He grabs my hand, sparking a short burst of dark energy. “Head of Biotics Division.”

I force a grin at the man I used to know. Force the rage and hurt down, and force myself to remember a time when we were friends. When he had my back, regardless of his reasons for it.

I force myself to try.

“Well fancy that. We’re gonna get along just fine, Alenko.”

**~*~**

The three of us sit in Councilor Tevos’ office, looking over the star charts provided. For reasons far beyond my comprehension, the Council is taking _some_ of my claims seriously. The asari seems content with giving me the resources and intel I needed years ago to stop the Reaper threat. The same blue chick who months ago stared in my face and said _I_ fell for Saren’s game.

It feels like a power play, and I _hate_ power plays. Especially sniping little petty ones that hinder progress and wastes everyone’s time. Put a gun in her hand and she’d lose her shit like any other civilian. But on the Presidium, in this glassy little palace, it’s perfectly fine to ignore years of warning signs, then turn around and negotiate her precious Spectre back.

“Why?” I ask firmly, after she runs through the assignment. “Why are you helping me? The Council doesn’t just go from ‘believing that I believe’ to giving me key intel. What changed?”

Tevos regards me with distain only an asari can muster. “Sometimes I forget how young humans are. As I said, we’ve seen terrorist incidences in the past, but only a few that matched Kenson’s behavioral pattern.”

I pause, not sure what details Tevos received versus the sliver of truth floating around the extranet. “What sort of pattern?” I ask.

“Normal, sane, capable of nearly everything the Alliance government threw at her, and then this.” The asari points to a report in the datapad in front of her. “Erratic behavior, check-ins not going as planned, and reports devolving into literal nonsense. Your Admiral insists that this only happened after her exposure to foreign technology.”

“And you’ve seen this before,” I say.

“Yes, though never this destructive.” She closes down the datapad and crosses her arms. “Individual incidences like this are scattered all throughout galactic history. Whole civilizations have come and gone, and fell out of favor over millennia. The batarians are only the most recent; they left Council space partially because of humanity, but only after discovering a secret technology, then denying its existence.”

“So what, you’re saying that _all_ of them are potentially Reaper agents?” I return. “That’s a little far-fetched.”

“We’re not prepared to make that assumption,” she replies coldly. “Some reports, including yours, hint at the possibility, but we need more evidence to back that claim.” She steeples her hands, giving me a bored look. “Please don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be. If you have doubts, feel free to explore the Citadel Archives for patterns as well.” She pauses. “Better yet.”

She types in her omni-tool. “You may find interesting data in Saren’s mission history. I’ll grant you access, but the Spectre we assigned will have useful intel as well.”

“Noted,” I reply. I look at the data cache sent to me. “So when am I supposed to meet this Spectre, anyway?”

“Oh, we’ve already met,” a smooth contralto voice interjects.

I turn, and my heart falls to my feet in the worst way.

An asari saunters in, prettier than most. She wears streaks of lavender across a no-nonsense face, but it’s the eyes that haunt me. Eyes that stared right at death itself and came back meaner. And those eyes, filled with smug malice, look unflinchingly at me.

She’s alive after all, despite never wanting to see me again. To what end I don’t know, but from the way Tevos looks at her, it’s clear she’s in on the Council’s change of heart. Save a life, and someone gets screwed one way or another. I steel myself like my life depended on it, and force an easy smile.

“Tela Vasir. Fancy meeting you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veronica's scarf came from a vendor on the Flotilla after Tali's trial, and was still in the cabin where she left it.


	5. Always Assume the Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard deals with impromptu reunions. Garrus actually avoids them.

**Shepard**

Tela fucking Vasir. The blue asshole that tricked me, almost killed my friend, and blew up a trade center on Illium. Kept alive because my dumb ass got offended by Liara’s brand of charm that night. I did _not_ expect – or want – to see her again. Instead, the double-crossing commando is standing right here, plain as fucking day.

_Kaidan, looks like I’m gonna need that bumper sticker._

“You’re acquainted from that nasty incident in Nos Astra,” Tevos intones. “And the Council felt it wise that you work with a familiar face on this assignment, so it was serendipitous that you both turned something so ugly in your favor. Tela Vasir has a remarkable pedigree and spoke highly of you, Shepard. Not only did you work well together on a chance encounter, your quick actions salvaged an unfortunate situation.”

I feel my eye twitch.

Tevos sits back down at her desk, motioning for me and Vasir to do the same. I hesitate, sizing the asari Spectre up as she sits with a fluid grace.

“You flatter me, Councilor. We were just doing our job.” Vasir shoots me a hard look and a cold smile. “Isn’t that right, Shepard?”

“You bet,” I say flatly. “But let’s cut to the chase. Vasir, Councilor Tevos said you had intel that relates to these Rho devices. What do you know?”

“Your Cerberus friends kept good notes, Commander.” She types into her omni-tool, pulling up a large holoscreen.

“’Friend’ is a bit strong,” I mutter. I inspect the details she pulled up. “Several of these are places where I reported husk activity. Three of these had devices, orbs and other tech that emitted bizarre frequencies.” I turn back to the two asari, noting the looks from Kaidan and James. “This is all recent data, but you mentioned patterns.”

“Saren’s personal notes reported unusual behavior from turian soldiers shortly after Shanxi. Nothing more was detailed from _him_. However,” Vasir holds up a data file, “the Illusive Man, or Jack Harper in this case told a different story.”

“How’d you know that?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “That name’s not common knowledge.”

“Inside sources,” she retorts smugly.

_Liara, is she still on your payroll?_

“Fair,” I say with a frown. “Let’s compare notes.”

“Saren ordered a strike on a Palavenian temple within two months after the Relay Incident.” Vasir pulls up a transcript of a manifesto. “Your ‘Illusive Man’ was on Palaven at the time, and founded Cerberus after the incident.”

“Right,” I reply. “But his manifesto only talks about the betterment of humanity. He didn’t mention anything about Reapers, and only started caring about them after Sovereign. And even then, only two cells dealt with technology, indoctrination, and counter-measurements, and mine was one of them.”

“False. I had a run-in with one of the Cerberus agents from the Lazarus cell.” And swear if she isn’t gloating. “And based on what she had to say, there were a lot more than just two.”

“ _What_.” I feel my hand growing too hot and too cold.

“Commander,” Kaidan warns.

I ignore him. “Tell me what you know.” I glare at the Spectre. “What did you find?”

She meets my eyes. “Thought that’d get your attention. She called herself ‘Rasa,’ though I don’t believe that name for a second. She seemed _very_ interested in you, but I was more interested in stopping Cerberus. At any cost.”

“Cerberus is bad, we get it,” James interjects. “What do they have to do with anything?”

“We have reason to believe that Cerberus studied these Rho devices for decades,” Vasir says. “There’s brief mentions of something called a Monolith, something he warned as a dangerous artifact.” She gives Tevos an unreadable look. “Based on the data I gathered, it’s not like Prothean technology.”

“Good that you’re on it,” Tevos says. “The Council wants results, plain and simple. Regarding Bahak… terrorist attack or not, your people have done a great service in getting rid of that device,” she says, eyeing me with mild curiosity.

“Agreed,” I say back, heat crawling up my neck. I still don’t know how much of the story people are willing to believe, but she’s willing to let me think she believes it. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We need to keep the momentum going on destroying these devices. Is there anything else I should know?”

“No, Commander. Per our negotiations, this is your mission. Tela Vasir will accompany for as long as she sees fit. Should you come across anything that changes the scope of your investigation, please report to the Council.” Tevos moves from her desk and clasps Vasir’s hands in an asari farewell. “Goddess watch over you, Tela.”

The asari Spectre bows her head, and there’s something in how solemn her face is that makes me feel like I’m intruding. I look away, focusing on James and Kaidan. From the way their eyes dart toward me, then back towards the door, it looks like I’m not the only one.

“Check in’s at Bay D26,” I say, quick enough to not interrupt too much. “We’ll head out once we finish our investigation here.”

 

**Garrus**

I wake to a ping from my sister, though the date on the calendar renders the message unnecessary. Our mother is bound for Sur’kesh in eight weeks to undergo the second wave of trials. No one suspects my involvement in getting her in. Mordin and I worked hard to keep it that way.

I don’t know what Solana expects I’ll get out of visiting, or if Mom will find any meaning to the gesture. When I was a kid, she was alive, vibrant, caring. She wanted me to follow my own path. In some ways that alone made her as bad a turian as me. Back then I didn’t realize that.

Nor did I see the growing rift between her and my father. We were on Palaven, well cared for, good status. But back then, all I felt was _my_ resentment. I never bothered to see hers. Like a good turian, she kept it hidden.

The diagnosis changed that. Corpalis tends to bring out the worst in people, in everyone involved. We’ll never say it out loud, but her illness laid bare all the wrongs we kept tucked away under the pretense of good turians. Mom got sick. Dad buried himself in work. Solana drowned under the weight of a bottle. And I ran.

I went to C-SEC under the guise of following in my father’s footsteps, but age and near-death experiences have a way of drawing out honesty. And that honest part of me didn’t want to see her suffer. Day in, day out, seeing bits of her slip away. Watching as some insidious disease replaced the mother I loved with some stranger.

And now? I know that Solana means well, that she doesn’t want to see our mother off alone. And deep down I know she’s right. After everything I’m fighting for, everything Shepard’s fighting for, the least I can do is show that I still care. It’s supposed to be them I’m fighting for. My pain should be irrelevant.

I shut down the alert on my omni-tool and look around, eyes adjusting to the light in the sparse, but serviceable bedroom. The apartment is a necessity, but it feels sparse and temporary, as if I’m still living out of a footlocker. On the other hand, why bother with trite decorations with so much at stake? Omega taught me the merits of living lean in ways military can only dream of. If I still take that to heart, at least I have more credits for armor.

I climb out of bed and head to my console. I need to meet with Bardonis and discuss the supply trade. She’s gunning for more than I can promise and grating on my nerves in the process.

Then again, better her than the Reapers. However marginally.

****

**_=-=-=-=-=-=-=_ **

_To: Bardonis, C.  
From: Vakarian, G._

_Please provide your availability to discuss the supply arrangement with Elkoss Combine. I understand you have concerns about the proposal._

  1. _Vakarian_



**_=-=-=-=-=-=-=_ **

 

In a volus second, I get a text on my omni-tool instead. When I check the message, I scroll past Sol’s name to see Caecia’s, annoyed that she can’t just reply officially like a normal person.

****

**_=-=-=-=-=-=-=_ **

_Grab lunch with me tomorrow. Fiorucci at three?_

**_=-=-=-=-=-=-=_ **

  
Dammit. Why the hell does she keep picking odd places to meet? And anyway that restaurant isn’t fit to talk shop about weapons and procurements. It’s borderline _romantic_ , not business. Hell, I can barely imagine taking…

Actually, I _can_ imagine taking Shepard there. With mixed results.

I try to figure out what I’m going to say back when I hear another ping.

 

**_=-=-=-=-=-=-=_ **

_Relax, it’s not a date. Got some asari clients that I have to entertain. You’ll be along for the ride, but you really should meet them._

**_=-=-=-=-=-=-=_ **

 

I roll my eyes. It’s not like I thought it _was_ a date. Just not a good place to talk about guns. I type in a reply and schedule out my meetings, adding yet another cryptic female to the roster.

 

**Shepard**

The next day, Kaidan, Vega and I are back on the Presidium, and I use the opportunity to appreciate the serene beauty. It feels good to be back, doing something for a change instead of sitting on base running tests. Granted, the price tag includes the watchful eyes of Alliance brass, the Council, and Tela fucking Vasir, but still. The fake sun, strange gardens, and bustling people? It’s nice.

We’re to visit Dr. Bryson, the operative Hackett ordered me to contact. His dossier claims that he performed independent research on Reaper tech, and he’s a possible lead on other Rho devices. If he can point us in the right direction, we’ll have an edge on destroying them.

We hail a skycab and make our way to the doctor’s lab in easy silence. It still unnerves me that they’re taking the threat seriously this time. What changed? I ponder this as we reach our destination, a sleek, upscale complex far from the docks.

“So Commander, what’s the deal with this guy?” Vega asks as he climbs out of the skycar. “I thought we were hitting up those spots that Spectre mentioned.”

“We’ll do that too,” I reply. I punch in commands on my omni-tool, recording programs added by Liara and Tali before I went back to the Alliance. “But first, we have to follow Hackett’s orders, and we need more to go on, anyway. This guy’s Alliance, so I trust him marginally more than I trust Vasir.”

“Where do you know her from?” Kaidan asks. “I uh… got a vibe.”

“Can’t discuss in detail,” I mumble. “Story for another time.”

_Because I really do_ not _want to get into that right now._

We walk in, and I’m immediately hit with unease. I scan the area, looking for the cause, and right there, right fucking out in the open is a chunk from Sovereign. I don’t feel the tell-tale jarring tug at my brain or the cold, clawing, _nagging_ feeling. And thank Christ, or everyone in this lab would be indoctrinated. Instead I feel… resentment. The desire to nuke the Reapers back to the Dark Ages.

The usual.

“–Match this against all known incidents within the Atticus Traverse. We’ll need to update the field team to switch priority.” An older man updates coordinates on a giant holomap, similar to the navigational console on my ship. On hearing our footfall, he turns. “Commander Shepard. Good, we’ve been expecting you.”

“Dr. Garret Bryson, I presume.” I hold my hand out, and he takes it in a firm grasp. I look around at the lab set-up. Besides Sovereign, I notice various bits of Reaper tech, ranging from husk parts and biomechanical tissue samples to curious-looking orbs, all protected by kinetic barriers. It’s not as safe as I want, but orbital nukes aren’t viable research tools. “Tell me about your work.”

“Of course.” He motions for us to follow him. “This is Task Force Aurora. Our mandate is to investigate legend, rumors and old stories about the Reapers before anyone knew they existed.”

“So the lore behind them?” I say incredulously. I look around as we follow him, noticing bulletin boards with notes, string marking off connections between swathes of scribbled writing.

“Lore, motives, tactics. Anything that gives us an edge.” He halts briefly and takes in the sight of me and my crew. “You three are too young to remember a time before the galactic community existed. In 2148, people still didn’t know aliens existed. A blink of an eye later we were fighting turians. Within _my_ lifetime our entire worldview changed.”

I rub the back of my neck, tamping out thoughts of certain turians. “But we know that now,” I reply.

“And think of all the patterns in human history we missed or flat out ignored. After the First Contact War, we rewrote and reexamined damn near everything.” He guides us to a console and types in a sequence. “In theory, unearthing any knowledge on the Reapers will give us that same opportunity.”

“The only reason this cycle knows anything is because of the Protheans,” I say, recalling the VI on Ilos. “They managed to buy us time, but how do you expect to find–”

“We wouldn’t know what to look for without them, sure,” the doctor interrupts. “But now that we know… Take a look at this.” He gestures toward the screen.

It’s like looking at Liara’s feeds. Headlines of unusual behavior from mining facilities. Entire sections of colonies going dark. In 2179, a mass suicide ordered by a salarian cult leader. Photos of various people who famously went crazy at far too young of an age. Entire research on Saren and his history pre-Sovereign.

Individually none of this is evidence of the Reapers’ existence. And if I met him before the beacon visions were seared in my brain, I would have called him a conspiracy theorist and plowed out of here. But as I stare at the feeds, a disturbing pattern emerges. The eyes. Not always blue, not always glowing, but all of them pronged, mechanical, and fucking creepy. Every bit as unnerving as when I looked at husks up close, or communicated with the Illusive Man.

“Damn,” I mutter. I turn back to the doctor. “How’d you get in this deep?”

“Unofficially, the Alliance didn’t doubt the Reaper threat. We lost too many people taking on Sovereign.” He looks down and away from us. “But unofficial means the Alliance couldn’t launch a full-scale investigation. We barely had resources to spare to get Aurora running. But when the rest of the galaxy says something doesn’t exist, I take it as a chance to say otherwise.”

“To fight,” I respond grimly.

“Exactly.”

“So what’ve you got for us, Doc?” Vega says, crossing his arms. “This don’t exactly sound like busting heads.”

“We don’t have much yet, but we’re onto something. Feel free to copy that data over,” he says to Kaidan, who already has his omni-tool out. “We’re keeping steady contact from here to our field researchers. But communication with my second-in-command went silent. I requested more assistance.” His face says neutral, business as usual, but something in his eyes…

_Everyone’s got a tell, V._

“And you got us,” I finish. “Who’s the contact and what was their last destination?”

He stares at me for about a second too long, then replies, “I heard from her last at Namakli, in the Pylos Nebula. Dr. Ann Bryson.” He swallows hard. “She’s my daughter, Commander.”

I wince inwardly. _That changes things._

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” I hear myself say. “We’ll make sure she’s ok.”

**~*~**

“Alenko, Vega. Thoughts?” I ask as we climb back into the skycar.

“I mean, a hot ham sandwich would hit the spot right about now,” James replies with an indifferent shrug.

“I’m almost certain that’s not what she meant, Lieutenant.” Kaidan taps his omni-tool and opens up a star-chart display. “Namakli’s… interesting, to say the least. Based on the type of research Dr. Bryson’s doing, this planet wouldn’t match. There’s not really a colony anymore, just a string of vorcha dens.” He glances at me, eyes crinkled as he gives a small smile. “It’s not Noveria, that’s for sure.”

I smirk back. “Given our luck, that might be a good thing. Vega, let’s hear some non-ham thoughts.” I look at the giant marine through the rear-view display.

“Non-ham thoughts…” He draws out the words as if actually pondering something other than his stomach. “Look Lola, I don’t know. Dude pegs me as a little nuts, pero hay gato encerrado, right?” He shrugs. “He sends his daughter out to some desert, so either he trusts her with the hard shit, or they don’t like each other much. Doc seemed upset enough, so _something’s_ out there, no?”

Kaidan chuffs at that. “That might earn you a sandwich, there. He’s got a point, Ronnie. I’m interested to see if she found anything, but why out there? Based on what we know so far, shouldn’t these Rho devices be on useful planets. Garden worlds, post-garden worlds, even mining sites?”

“It’s habitable-ish, so who knows,” I reply. “In my…” I swallow hard, stealing a quick glance back at Vega, not sure how much I should reveal about my visions. “Eden Prime was covered in Prothean cities once. It wasn’t all prefabs and farmland. Same with Feros, y’know?”

“The universe is an ancient place,” Kaidan agrees.

“That it is. Well, gents, let’s grab some grub and head back to the _Normandy_. We’ve got our first rescue mission.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The food at the Vancouver base drove Vega crazy, but every time he brought it up to Shepard, her reply was "better than prison, worse than Omega."


	6. Don't Say Asari If You Don't Mean It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus gets bungled up in another meeting. Shepard catches up with a 'friend.'

**Garrus**

Thunderstorms on Palaven are traditionally a bad omen, the superstition dating back from the ancient Titans. Turians lost wars because of flash floods, chaos erupted across the lands from hurricanes, and minor illnesses were attributed to poor weather. Even the first lunar landing was delayed for seven weeks from a legendary typhoon. Rain almost always meant bad luck to a turian.

So it’s fitting that the sky opened up today.

I step out of the rain into the lavish restaurant, scanning the room for Bardonis. I find her easily; she’s in some deep blue ensemble that’s a faint homage to asari design. I watch as she converses with two severe-looking asari, and from their demeanor and stylized face paint, these are naturalized Palavenians.

Bardonis waves me down. When I approach, she’s all smiles for me and the asari. “Garrus! I was just telling these two about you. Tassana, Corinth, this is the hero of the Citadel.”

I do my best impression of normalcy and manage not to stammer. “That’s… flattering, Caecia, but there’s no way I can take even half that credit. Everyone knows that was a joint effort.”

“Humility,” she replies, and flares a mandible to the other two conspiratorially. “I needn’t tell you how refreshing that is these days.” She gestures at a chair. “Join us.”

I sit, taking in the sight of the trio. The two asari look at me with wary curiosity. Meanwhile, Bardonis signals the waiter for drinks and flairs a smug mandible my way.

“Now that you’re here,” she starts, “I wanted you all to meet because I was losing sleep over the predicament we’re all in. But wouldn’t you know, I stumbled on a solution just last night.” Her eyes dart to each of us brightly.

“Cut to the chase,” the one called Corinth says. “You said you had a deal for us. Who is this guy?”

“Oh, do try to keep calm, sister,” Tassana rebukes. “I’m positive Caecia doesn’t want to waste our time again.” She turns back to the turian, giving her an icy smile. “Isn’t that right?”

Unfazed, Bardonis waves her hand and replies, “Of course not, of course not! I think you’ll find my proposal very beneficial. In fact, if I hadn’t met Vakarian here, I wouldn’t have even thought of it. It’s serendipitous!”

_Wait, what?_

“What’s going on?” I demand. “I don’t like getting blindsided.”

Bardonis gives me a level look. “Garrus, I’ll say it plain. Elkoss can’t renegotiate a contract with the Hierarchy. The terrorist activity is _almost_ a selling point, but between Council regulations and colony unrest, it’s bad timing.”

I roll my eyes. “You’ve sold me those same excuses before, and only to sweeten the deal for yourself. Why did you invite me here? Did something change or not?”

“Something did.” Bardonis turns to the two asari. “These two _charming_ sisters are independent contractors. Very respected friends of mine with an unorthodox mission.”

My eyes narrow at the trio, and my investigative instincts kick in. I look at their hands. Rough, with telling burns and scars, no trace of jewelry. When I scan their faces and attire, I see smaller scars along their cartilage, some barely hidden by their clothing. Like most asari, their skin is exposed, but in practical slits to allow for better biotic use. More functional than the typical ensemble.

“Independent contractors?” I reply. “Call me old-fashioned, but I usually just say mercenaries.”

Bardonis coughs and giggles nervously. The short-tempered asari, Corinth, gives me a downright evil glare while the other lifts her drink and smiles at me knowingly.

“Got us there, kid.” Tassana winks and pats her sister’s arm. “But your nuance needs work. There’s a big leap between a regulated private business versus scum like Eclipse or Blue Suns. For one, we’re not dirty. No drugs, no glory, just clean and simple protection.”

I frown. “You can’t possibly tell me you two are working for the side of good. There’s always a catch.”

“We’re working for the side of business,” Corinth says flatly. “We want to grow our operation, but do things the _right_ way, and this short-spanner is stopping our progress. She wants more credits than her crap is worth, and she’s wasting. Our damn. Time.” She cuts another vicious look at the now composed turian and drums her fingers in a mnemonic.

“Corinth!” Tassana snaps. “By the goddess and spirits of Palaven, you _will_ compose yourself.” She turns back to us, and I honestly can’t tell how rehearsed her distraught look is. “I do apologize, Mr. Vakarian. Caecia,” she says, nodding politely. “I take no offense at your healthy skepticism. Spirits knows it’s kept us alive. But I assure you, we’re fighting for the right side.”

“Is that so?” I mutter, taking note of the other asari, silent now with a scowl that was surely practiced in a mirror. “I’m curious how a merc can tell right from credits.”

“Story for another day. Believe us or not, Corinth and I _do_ care about things like honor and justice.” The asari ducks her head in a way that’s almost turian, foreign and familiar all at once. “We have an opportunity to do something good, in a way that’s not just credits. At least, that was our hope,” she finishes, shooting a meaningful glance at Bardonis.

“Assuming I’ll even pretend to hear this out, what’s the proposal?” I ask the turian.

“It’s very, very simple. You see, these ladies have the capital for the goods you need, without resorting to the caveats normally enforced by the Hierarchy.” She takes a dainty sip of her drink and gives us a sly smile. “And you have the clearance to make the more… _useful_ purchases.” She trills softly. “The contract practically writes itself!”

My eyes narrow, and I feel a vile heat creep up my spine. “What exactly are you asking for? What are you trying at?” I ask, drawing out the words.

_And why am I still sitting here?_

She waves an errant hand and continues. “We’re a business first, Vakarian. It pains me to say it, but a contract change on your scale will disrupt business. Unfortunately, working directly with the C’Trava sisters here,” she gestures at the asari, “isn’t an option either. We can sell _a_ gun to whomever wants to buy.” She shrugs. “But anything on a full military scale is out of the question.”

“Unless it’s through authorized personnel, like a government or military representative,” Tassana chimes in.

Curse my curiosity. “Why?” I ask, the question escaping me when I should just walk right out that door.

“We intend to clean house,” Corinth says with a renewed spark in her eyes. “Nothing petty or boring. Save that for chasing down pirates or guarding dignitaries. We got a hot tip from an old friend.”

“There’s a group of terrorists that needs to... reconsider their operation,” Tassana finishes calmly. “But our source said we can’t ‘blow them to goddamn smithereens’ without the right resources.”

I eye her warily. _There’s no way in hell the universe is_ that _small._

“And Elkoss Combine has the right equipment?” I ask in disbelief. “Every other merc outfit knows they aren’t cutting edge. Hell, every military in the galaxy has an outdated contract.”

Corinth growls out, “We’re not ‘every other merc outfit,’ you sni–”

“Now, now,” Bardonis says with a strained smile. “I understand your frustrations–”

“You’re causing my frustrations,” I say flatly.

“And mine,” Corinth grumbles.

“ _But_ if the Hierarchy used their _expertise_ for any large-scale contracted work,” she points to the sisters, “ _such as_ building safe houses on colonies, protection and light combat training, then we could amend our contract for your task force _and_ help their organization.”

“So what, I buy more than I need on their dime, and funnel it off to these two?” I finish, disgusted. “It’s as plain as a Cipritine storefront that whatever you’re up to, it’s no good. Otherwise, you’d sell to them directly and be done with it.” I turn back to the two sisters. “Say it plain while my curiosity has the better of me. Who are you after?” I take a sip of my drink.

“Cerberus,” Tassana says.

I try my hardest not to choke on the throat-scorcher they called brandy. “You’re… you’re kidding. Why?”

“Credits and glory,” Corinth says, still giving me a sour look that seems more and more like someone I know. “Our source said there’s pay in it, and no one would miss them.”

I crane my head back, taking in the light from the ornate chandeliers. And call it fate, but I suddenly recall a conversation with Tali. Leadership, decision-making, who she took her cues from. In the end it came down to loyalty. Explosives, sure, but having loyal people by your side is always the best option. It's why mercenary types like these two always threw warning signs. In the end, they’ll show more loyalty to money, to themselves, over the mission at hand.

_Not all, Vakarian. Not Melenis._

“Who’s your source?” I ask, head still craned and feeling the last vestiges of interest leaving me.

“This guy with more scars than face,” Corinth answers. “Tass, what was it? Something weird, like Merlino, Massino…?”

“Massani,” I correct. Then my brain catches up to my mouth. “Wait.” I lean forward and eye the now surprised asari sisters. “Massani. Older human, false eye, only drinks from a flask?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Tassana says uncertainly.

I reach inside a jacket pocket, and pull out a gunmetal flask. Slightly newer than its matched companion, and it’s not lost on me that we’re matched in that capacity as well. I lean back in my seat and examine the gift, and I can’t help the faint smile that crosses my face.

I return the flask to its home and give the three women a carefully neutral look. “I’ll think about it,” I say after a pause. “Not promising any more than that.” I stand. “Bardonis, we’ll keep in touch.”

I leave the table without another word, more confused than ever. “Zaeed, you arrogant bastard,” I mutter out loud. “You might be the first good news I’ve heard in weeks.”

As I walk out the door, I look to the crystal clear sky. It stopped raining.

 

**Shepard**

Vega, Kaidan and I wait at the docks for Tela Vasir, and I spend the time idly staring at my ship. It’s still jarring seeing the _Normandy_ decked in black instead of Cerberus colors. But it’s sensible. As Hackett and Anderson drilled into me, we have to stay covert; communicate using only the highest security, QEC transmissions as the rule, and groundside secure channels as the only exception. I’ve been isolated and running silent ever since I came back to the Alliance, but it’s crucial to keep it that way even if I am stretching my legs.

My mind wanders to the wildcard about to board the _Normandy._ I wonder how she got involved in this mess. We tangled once. Exactly once, with the promise to never see each other again. How the hell we jumped from that to her assigned on my ship is the biggest mystery in the galactic theater.

“Any sign of her yet?” Kaidan whispers.

“Not yet,” I murmur back. “And she can’t exactly ping me, either.”

He shifts his weight, boxing James out of the conversation while trying his hardest to not look like he’s gossiping. “So what went on with you two? You looked ready to kill.”

I shrug, head lowered as I recall that night. Rain beating against the blown-out windows of the Dracon Trade Center. Leaving the asari Spectre in a purple bloody heap while a good friend glared me down. “Ready to? I _wanted_ to, once. Then I didn’t.” I let out a short sigh. “Kaidan, did you have access to _any_ of my mission reports? Or… hear anything from our squad back on the SR1?”

“No.” He rubs his nose and looks down the corridor. “Above my paygrade for the first. They stonewalled me, too.” He exchanges a brief, sad look before continuing. “And while I wasn’t exactly barred, the Alliance felt it… best to limit contact with ‘the aliens.’”

“Don’t air-quote, for the love of Christ,” I groan. “Alright, so you’re as in the dark as they come.” I glance down the corridor, in some way hoping for an out, but finding none. “I met Vasir through Liara.” _In a sense._ “At the time, we didn’t see eye to eye, but now I don’t know what’s right-side up. I think she’s helping, y’know?”

“There’s something more to it,” he says, voice edging closely to exasperated. “We don’t know her motives, sure, but I _know_ when you’re obfuscating, Ronnie.” He waves his hand hurriedly before I voice a protest. “I know, I know. Maybe it’s for another time, maybe now’s not the place, whatever. But is she going to be a problem? She going to try anything?”

While he knows when I’m not saying all the answers, I know from the tone of his voice that he’s not asking all the questions. I should be annoyed by the non-implication, but I remember that I _was_ conflicted about letting Vasir live. Maybe him not asking is for the best. Even on my best day, my answers wouldn’t make sense.

“We’ll get on until we don’t,” I say with a sigh. “And whatever happens, I’ll deal with the consequences.” I give him a hard steady look. “I don’t foresee any problems. We stick to the mission and the bigger picture. Cooperate, and I’ll do the same.”

He matches my gaze for a full second before shifting his eyes to my left. He nods subtly and murmurs, “Showtime, babe.”

I turn. Sure enough, I see the asari sauntering towards us, flanked by a couple of turian dock workers holding small crates with the Spectre emblem stamped on the side. Vasir herself is armed and armored, new gear from the last time I saw her. She shoots me an odd look, a bastard union between a sneer and a grin.

“I took the liberty of procuring gear,” she says by way of greeting. “You’re both biotics, so you should find them useful. If we’re ready, we should debrief as soon as these fringe-biters load up.” She nudges one of the turians playfully, who remains silent but looks ready to murder her.

“Appreciate it,” I say, glancing at the turian apologetically. “Communication room is behind the CIC. Let’s meet there and we’ll go over objectives.”

“Good,” she nods. “See you in ten.” With that, she saunters toward the docking entrance with the two turians in tow.

“What the hell is a fringe-biter?” Vega asks, watching the retreating group enter the ship.

“It’s a young-ass kid.” I smile at him. “If we were turian, it’s exactly what I’d call you.” I laugh as he rolls his eyes at me and finish, “C’mon. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

**~*~**

I enter the new war room on the _Normandy_ and take in the new sights and sounds. During ‘lock-down,’ the retrofit team went berserk. Much like everywhere else on the ship, Cerberus was wiped away, replaced through and through with technology sanctioned by humanity’s finest. The execution is rigid, tightly regulated and oh so Alliance. It feels more like the old SR1, more like home.

As I pull up the planetary interface, I hear a distinct click on the small stairway. I look up to see Vasir, wearing a very neutral, all-business expression on her face. She nods in greeting.

“So,” she says. “Bet you’re surprised to see me. And I’ll bet you’re dying to know what I’ve been up to all this time.”

“I’ll admit I’m curious,” I say, folding my arms. “But I’m more worried about whether we’re going to have any problems.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “You’re untouchable,” she says, clearly aggravated. “What is it you humans say? Water under the bridge? Asari have something similar. ‘A wise one makes an ally out of mistakes.’”

“I’ll remember to parse that out later.” I rub the bridge of my nose. “What’s your intel regarding the Rho devices that you haven’t already brought forward?”

“Honestly?” She shrugs. “Our only solid fact is their behavior. They’re short-range indoctrination devices; anything caught within the area of effect displays a series of behavioral changes and neural patterns. If exposed for too long, or too frequently, those changes become permanent.” She crosses her arms and peers at the planetary interface. “If we’re going to deal with them, we need a way to protect ourselves. Otherwise we’re flying right into the heart of danger with our stomachs out.”

_Our… stomachs out?_

She stares at my confused face. “You’ve never heard that saying?”

I shake my head.

“It’s old turian slang,” she smiles craftily. “But most asari adopted it a few centuries back. Don’t worry, you’ll learn the lingo soon enough.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “How’d you get involved with this? You mentioned someone named Rasa.” I give her a hard look and fold my arms. “What happened?”

“Not much,” she admits. “I let her go, tried to hack into their systems, but got stopped before I could get anything completely damning. Just junk data about the Collectors, with a mention of threats to humanity here and there. Then you, the dead girl, showed up working for them. I put two and two together.”

“I didn’t work for them,” I say, frowning. “It was a shitty rock and a hard plac–”

“Spare me, Commander,” she interjects, holding up a hand. “I get it. No idiot alive would actively antagonize an organization that big.”

I give her a wry smile. “Well I am a ‘dead girl,’ so–”

“And be _sides_ ,” she continues, glaring at me, “I received intel from someone calling themselves an ally. A defector that originally stopped my probe into Cerberus. They indicated something bigger on the horizon. Bigger than the Collectors.”

“The Reapers.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “The Reapers.”

I eye the Spectre warily. “And your source?”

“Don’t be coy, Commander.” She sneers. “And honestly? Not the least bit curious on how you made it out alive.”

I begin to pace. Somehow, just as I’d hoped, Liara – or Miranda – convinced another Spectre that the Reapers are real. The picture forms in my mind, piece by piece. If I’m right, the ‘Shadow Broker’ gave Vasir intel on a silver platter. And being the practical sort, she saw the data for what it meant. At least I know she’s not going to slit my throat. That or I really _am_ putting trust in funny places.

_Setting the bar pretty low for good news._

“So do we have a game plan here or are you too busy breaking in your boots?” she asks.

“Stow it,” I command. “Namakli. We have a scientist out there, and contact’s been spotty. She’s on a team of researchers that found some patterns. Nothing especially promising, but a start.” I zoom out the planetary interface and add in the data from Dr. Bryson’s office. “Here’s the short list of places we’ve got. You said you had similar patterns?”

“I do.” She pulls up her omni-tool and syncs her data with the interface. Within seconds the galaxy map is riddled with flame-red dots, many overlapping the doctor’s highlighted areas.

She gives me an impassive look. “Of course, I just kept that to the current century. Don’t want to bore you short-spanners with a history lesson.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Jesus pyjak-shooting Christ, is this gonna be a thing? You giving me shit all the damn time?”

She shrugs as a reply. “It’s not exactly how I wanted to spend the last of my Maiden years, so excuse me if I seem a little crabby. For better or worse you have my gun. That should be more than enough.” She steps away from the console and heads for the exit. “I’m out,” she says, back turned. “Let me know when we’re ready to go to ground, and I’ll show you how real Spectres work.”

She eyes me one last time by the doorway. “And Shepard? Thanks for signing my chest plate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asari have mixed levels of hemocyanin and hemoglobin, lending to their purple blood color. This along with their unique perspective as a long-lived species earned them the nickname 'coldbloods' among humans. 
> 
> Never say this in polite company.


	7. Moral Quandaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus gets some advice. Shepard and crew weather a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone still reading this SO very much. I came off of a very long crunch and am happy to say that this fic is back up and running.

**Garrus**

  
I make the trek to my apartment, a million thoughts buzzing through my head like gunfire. Zaeed Massani matched the profile of men I pursued during my C-SEC tenure, and when left to my own devices on Omega, men like him became a dying breed. Ordinarily, a pursuit with a merc of his caliber would have been lethal. Blame it on a cramped ship, a suicide mission, or mutual sniper bravado, but I grew to admire him, even trust. If nothing else, the old mercenary was upfront about his goals. My gut tells me to trust Zaeed if he’s involved, even though he swore he’d ‘never trust a blue girl again.’ But something about the meeting nagged at me. It’s no surprise that Elkoss is dirty. They’re in the arms business, out to make money. And the main buyers for guns are military and mercs. Love it or not, killing is a lucrative business, especially if you’re not pulling the trigger.

Indecision never sits well with me. It’s too much like fate, leaving things up to chance rather than taking action. And normally I’m content with making a choice and settling it, like I’ve always done. Applying for Spectre status, leaving with Shepard for the _Normandy_ , and going to Omega were all my choices. Now I’m stuck at a strange crossroads, and it makes my fringe crawl.

Those sisters are nothing but trouble, whether they gun for the right people or not. Cerberus isn’t a friend to anyone, but arming those two will end sour before the fruit falls. On the other hand, I know the Reapers offer only death and annihilation, and the Hierarchy, the strongest military in the known galaxy, isn’t prepared. If I don’t take this token title and do something with it, dealing with asari mercs will be the least of my problems.

Once home, I access my console, take a seat at my desk and pull out my flask. Turning it in my hand, looking at the tiny nicks and feeling the weight puts me right back on that ship. I should contact him, hear what he has to say straight from his mouth.

_Damn I miss her._

I shake aside the thought. Not now. If I think about her for too long, the blank walls feel a little too close, and I’ll get too distracted to do my duty. Instead, I stare at the console, spinning the flask by its corner. I don’t know how to contact Massani other than standbys left over from the suicide mission. And knowing him, he likely ditched those the moment we parted ways.

We scattered when the mission ended, and the universe was lonelier for it.

I check my messages, skimming past Sol’s insistent messages, reading the Primarch’s notifications with marginally higher focus, all the while searching for an answer that won’t come.

_And looking for a message you know she can’t send._

I need someone to bounce the idea with. Talk it through before I do something rash. I give the flask a final spin, and heave a sigh. Much as I never liked it before, the old man’s advice lately has been… refreshing.

So to speak.

I open up a comm channel and wait for him to pick up.

“Vakarian here,” a gruff voice answers. A familiar, battle-hardened face fills the screen.

“Father,” I answer. “It’s me. How are you?”

“Better than most,” he answers automatically. “Though I should ask the same of you. You look troubled.”

Straight to business, but I suppose there’s no sense hiding. “Yeah,” I sigh. “You could say that.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“It’s just…” I hesitate. “Where to start? When you were back on the force, how many times have you ever run across situations that…” I eye the flask, “tested what you were willing to excuse, willing to let slide?”

“I’m not sure I follow. This some kind of moral quandary, or are you looking to reminisce?” Through the screen, he gives me a long, baleful look, then sighs. “Alright. Story for story. Sound good?”

“Lay it on me,” I reply.

“We had a case, few years back. Long time ago before your fringe grew in. Batarian couple had a kid, a son, that needed a liver transplant. The parents, well, they didn’t give their consent to the surgery. Religious reasons.”

“You’re kidding,” I blurt out. “They didn’t want to save their kid?”

“From what I understand, it wasn’t saving to them. Religion’s a funny thing like that.” He waves a hand. “Makes you believe things you didn’t think would make sense otherwise. At any rate, the parents and the head doctor argued, and meanwhile, the hospital ‘lost’ the patient.” He finishes the statement with an air-quote.

“Lost,” I repeat. “As in died, or kidnapped?”

“Lost,” he replies with a quick flick of his mandible, “As in taken to a separate facility behind everyone’s back, and given a liver from an ‘anonymous donor.’ By the time we found the kid, he was healthy and alive, playing in this, I don’t know, daycare waiting room.”

My jaw slackens. “That’s… surprisingly uplifting. Which means it was anything but.”

“Of course not. You know that.” He leans in closer, resting his arms on his knees. “One count of reckless endangerment of a sentient below their government’s age of majority. One count of falsified medical records, one count of operation done without surgical consent, and to top it off, a mysterious donor of a child-sized batarian liver.” He sighs and leans back. “A liver that saved a kid’s life.”

I eye the flask again, and heave a sigh of my own. “So you investigated. It was, by all accounts, the right thing to do. What came of it?”

“Rogue doctors,” my father replies derisively. “A group of medical students and lab technicians, salarians, asari, even a couple of humans, who wanted to try a new method of organ transplants using completely synthetic parts.”

“Don’t we have that now?” _Isn’t that partially what brought_ her _back?_

“We do because of them and their ‘research,’” he says dryly. “In the old days, we would need the patient’s DNA to grow an organ, and even then, finding a donor was more desirable. Cloning takes months, months they didn’t have. Those doctors knew that, and did the right thing in the wrong way.”

“In the end, you still arrested them,” I say, more bitter about the outcome than I expected.

“In the end we had to,” he replies. “Still, you know as well as I do that getting arrested is never the end of someone’s story. They were charged, got a light sentence, and their own wing at Huerta Memorial.”

“Sounds like justice was served,” I say dryly. “In the end you just did the same thing. Time after time, by the book as usual. I’m not sure if I see the moral quandary in that.”

“The quandary is choosing to go by the book.” He gives me a stern look. A familiar look. “Thinking for yourself doesn’t always mean breaking the rules to get the results you want. Those doctors eventually learned that lesson. Even if it took a little help,” he finishes smugly.

“What do you mean?”

“A story never ends at the arrest, like I said. Investigating officers are required to testify, and in some cases give their opinion on the situation. I did my part best as I saw fit.”

“You encouraged them,” I say, wonder creeping in my voice.

“They saved a kid’s life,” he says, voice brittle. “Kid’s a captain on Kithoi Ward, now.”

I swallow hard, avoiding my father’s gaze. Mildly surprised at the story’s ending. “Play by the rules, because that’s the best policy.”

“Yes.”

“So that’s it, then.” I heave a sigh.

“Twenty-odd years, and still,” he mutters. “Garrus, you learn the rules and play by them because they exist for a reason. They represent the right way to do things. Nothing more. And frankly, I can’t talk you into doing everything by the book. We both learned that when you ran off to Omega.”

I wince.

“The only thing I can do,” he continues, “is try my damnedest to instill some common sense into you. So that you can make the right choices for yourself. To have honor.”

“That’s worked out well,” I say dryly.

“Actually, it has.”

I blink. “…What?”

“It has,” he repeats. “Son, you spent half your life walking in the shadows of others. Mine, your generals, teachers, even that damn human Spectre of yours. And like it or not, that stint on Omega.” He sighs. “Much as I disagree with it on every level imaginable, it was your path to walk. Not in the shadow of someone else. So don’t pick now to fall back into that pattern.”

I crane my neck and look to the ceiling. “Father, I’m not going to run away to the Terminus again, not if I can help it.”

“I don’t mean that,” he snaps. “I mean following in footsteps that don’t belong to you. You keep walking in someone’s shadow, you’ll only be Garrus on the outside. But who’s the turian behind the carapace? You know right from wrong by now, and you know what’s right for you.”

“But,” and the question catches in my throat. The words he threw at me turned me into a young cadet again… but finally an equal. “How will I know what the right thing is?”

“You won’t,” he replies tersely. “That’s what trust is.”

  
**Shepard**

We run silent as soon as we enter the Zaherin system. Doctor Bryson followed up with more intel, none of which sounded too promising. Small, underfunded research facility, too close to the vorcha dens scattered around the planet. An even smaller team, with young Dr. Bryson herself in the lead. They broke off contact about a standard week ago, which in my experience means anything from dead to trapped in a Prothean force field.

I climb aboard the shuttle with Kaidan, Vega and Vasir in tow. Vega looks eager as he double-checks his guns, like he’s long overdue for excitement. Vasir looks bored as all hell, and shows it in the way she slumps in the corner seat. And Kaidan is a rock as usual. Same thoughtful face, same coffee-brown eyes scanning every detail. Same calm veneer hiding whatever’s really going on in that head of his.

_Black little rainclouds._

“We’re coming up to a suitable landing zone, but looks like a dust storm is rolling in,” Cortez says. “No reports to go by, but this one’s enough to make communication spotty.”

“Take us through nice and easy, then,” I reply. “If it gets too bad, be ready to bug out after you drop us down.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Turbulence hits the shuttle, forcing me to hang on to the railing.

“Must be one hell of a storm,” Vega comments.

“The hell is going on out there?” I regain my balance and make my way toward the cockpit.

“Storms, like I said. Visibility’s dropped to forty-two percent.” Cortez looks up at me from his seat, eyes tense with worry. “You still want to drop in?”

“As long as you can land us,” I say with ease. “This guy’s daughter is down there, and they might have something good. I’m not about to get cold feet now.” I look back at the crew. They’re as ready as they’ll ever be. “Drop us in, Cortez.”

As soon as our feet hit the ground the wind tries its best to knock us sideways. I hunker down to get my bearings, then scan for any low-frequency signals, distress warnings, anything. Beside me, Kaidan does the same.

“Yo, Lola. Hate to state the obvious, but it fucking sucks out here.”

I roll my eyes behind my visor. “Noted, Vega,” I reply. “Picking up something faint about thirty clicks that way,” I say, signaling the direction. “Let’s move up, nice and easy.”

Grit and sand swirl around us, transforming the sky and sun into a dim, burnt-orange haze. The trek toward the signal is slow, boring, and methodical. One step forward, squint, repeat. And with the signal spotty at best, and the wind beating at us, loud and fierce, we can’t even put on shitty techno music to pass the time.

And now I miss Garrus all over again. Damn it.

Eventually we see the faint outline of prefabs dead ahead. The sand’s playing with our depth perception, but according to our readout, still about a hundred yards away.

“That must be it!” Kaidan shouts hopefully.

“Agreed!” I yell back over the din. “Stay on your toes! We don’t know if this is a rescue or clean-up!”

We draw our guns and approach the prefabs. Slow and steady, squint, repeat. Once we finally get close enough, close enough to hear the sand beat against the metal walls, we stop and listen.

Wind howling. Vega’s breath over the comm. The quietest murmur behind the walls.

_Bingo._

I take point to the doorway and signal the others. They fall into a defensive position, and I find myself pleasantly surprised at how efficient the meat tank and the crabby asari are. They don’t have the excuse of experience like Kaidan does. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

I override the lock on the door and enter.

Inside, the prefab is dim, with light coming from a couple of consoles on the far end. As my eyes adjust, I see a few people napping in the corner, two people at a table drinking TM88 and playing Skylian Five, and none other than the doctor herself reading a trashy romance novel at her desk.

I think I feel my eye twitch.

“So, uh…” Vega starts. “I guess we’re here to rescue you guys?” He lowers his gun first and looks around sheepishly.

I step forward to the doctor. “Commander Shepard, Alliance Navy. Are you Dr. Ann Bryson?”

She scrambles out of her chair and straightens out her uniform. “Ah, yes! Of course. I’m Ann Bryson. Lead field researcher for Task Force Aurora. We ah… we weren’t expecting anyone to arrive so soon.”

“So soon?” I cock my head. “We were told to come out here by Dr. Garret Bryson. Said communication’s been on the fritz.” And when I look around at her crew assembling themselves, I get the slight impression that it’s been spotty for some time.

“So then we weren’t ignored,” she mumbles to herself. “Just not heard at all.” And for an awkward moment a guilty look flashes across her face. “Well. We _did_ find something out here.”

“That sounds promising, but I’m sensing a but,” Kaidan says. He steps further into the room and stands beside me, folding his arms and looking around. He’s not one to use intimidation tactics, but he wears it well. Based on the uneasy look the doctor wears, his stance is fairly effective.

“We came here on a hunch. Years ago, an asari reported that she abandoned a project here because ‘the location was too creepy.’” She gestures towards the door. “Creepy, even though it’s just rocks and dust out there. We found something, but not what we intended. Not a Rho device, nor any kind of Reaper tech I’ve ever seen.” Her eyes glitter in the dim light when she says, “We may have discovered something even bigger.”

“Show us,” Vasir says. “And while you’re at it, maybe explain why you’re wasting time and good booze out here.”

The doctor, who I peg to be in her mid-twenties at best, looks uncomfortable again. “We were going to leave after the storms settled,” she says indignantly. “Then about a week ago, we figured we could risk it and go off-planet anyway. But then… then our ship got stolen and we’ve been stuck here since trying to get a signal out.”

“Stolen?” we say in unison.

“There’s ah, a vorcha tribe pretty close by. We think they raided our supplies, as well. We heard rumors, but we didn’t expect… well, to be _stranded_ here.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Any sign of them now? Casualties?”

“No, none hurt or injured. We’ve tried sleeping in shifts, keeping watch, but they haven’t come back.” She ducks her head down, and the poor thing looks so lost and sad. “We think they’re long gone.”

The full picture forms in my brain as I take in the scene. This woman, in some ways still a kid, was eager to prove herself out here, and almost did. Then in a bad case of luck that any Alliance type knows about, got humiliated by some roguish-ass boat-stealers.

_Man, I hope she at least kept the research._

“Did you at least keep the research?” Vasir asks, tone drier than the windstorm.

Dr. Bryson perks up. “We did. Luckily the artifact wasn’t on board, so we still have it with us.”

“With you?” Vega asks. “What is it? And how big is it?”

“More importantly, is it dangerous?” Kaidan heads toward the consoles, omni-tool already out. “I’m assuming this is the data? Alright if we make a copy?”

“Er… Yes, by all means.” Dr. Bryson gathers files, books, and research equipment and stuffs them in a duffle bag. Her frantic energy reminds me of a certain kid on her first week at basic. I decide right then that I like her, in that Tali sort of way. The type of little sister that needs common sense drilled in them.

Her actions rouse urgency in her crew, and they pack their equipment in kind. The two poker players, a lanky, dark-skinned guy and a shorter, snubbed-nosed woman rise out of their chairs and head to a back room.

“Commander, if you’ll follow us,” the woman says, beckoning, “you can see for yourself what we discovered out here.”

I give a slight nod to Vasir, and we follow the researchers to the back room. In the middle of a cluster of monitors, consoles and datapads sits a very round, very dim, and wholly underwhelming grey orb.

I rub my eyes with a hand and try my best to keep a level head. Beside me, Vasir lets out a long exasperated sigh and drums out a mnemonic on her arm.

“This,” I start, praying to God for a neutral voice. “What are we looking at here?”

“We’re not exactly sure yet,” the woman says excitedly. “But we picked up an unusual signal when we scanned for foreign devices in the system. We landed here, almost by accident, really, and came across this.”

“We know it doesn’t look like much,” the lanky man says. “But we found it in an old, unexplored cave. Along with this.”

He enlarges a screen on the console and projects an image. It dawns on me quick as lightning what I’m looking at, and my blood turns to glass.

A mural. Ancient stone drawings, dyes and scorch marks still intact, showcasing artistry similar to ancient humans. Bipeds roamed this planet once, if the drawing tells it right, but that’s not what stops my heart. A large imposing monster, that abomination synonymous with every horror lurking in the deep, towers over the figures.

They stand in fixed poses of worship, and I know damn well what that means.

The fucking Reapers. A damn drawing of the bastards on some underfunded dustbowl surrounded by vorcha dens. And to top it off, a fucking Rho device center stage in the goddamn room.

_This day is turning shittier by the minute._

“You mean to tell me you have an untested, unshielded Reaper device right in the middle of your research station?” I say, quelling down the panic in my voice. “Did you people not get the memo on indoctrination?”

“Shepard,” Kaidan says, entering the room behind me. “According to this data, that’s not a Reaper device.”

“Yeah, that and four krogan nuts will buy me a Trident, Kai.”

“No, he’s correct,” Dr. Bryson says, duffle slung over her shoulder behind him. “If my hunch is correct, we’re looking at the first race that ever encountered the Reapers.”

“The first.” I turn back to the image, this stark reminder of their shape, their size, so much like Sovereign, so foreign and violent. I stare at it, looking for whatever _she_ sees, and coming up empty. “That’s a _Reaper_ ,” I say. “Are you telling me…” I turn back to the doctor.

“This may be the race that built the Reapers.” She steps forward with a look of pride clear across her face. “And if I’m correct, we discovered the oldest technological artifact in the galaxy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A customized private-issued Trident costs around sixty-thousand credits. Shepard's incorrectly factoring in a potential military discount, assuming she gets market value for krogan parts.


	8. Coding Languages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard complains about a few things. Garrus gets touchy about language.

**Garrus**

My stint on Omega taught me one universal constant. No one disappears in this galaxy, even if they had the credits, resources, or manpower to try. This fact held true for every criminal, fugitive and mercenary I ever took down. Salarian scientists like Mordin, and even serial killers like Morinth were discovered after years, even centuries of hiding. With enough determination, anyone off the grid wouldn’t lay low for long.

So why is Zaeed so hard to locate now?

I lie awake staring at the ceiling, feeling homesick for stars and the hum of the _Normandy_. Thinking about old times is marginally more welcome at night, but it only serves to remind me that she’s not here. Instead, I push those thoughts out and run through the facts one by one.

Fact one. They can call themselves whatever they want, but those asari sisters are mercenaries, and automatically trouble. As a rule, mercs fight for money, and no amount of goodwill or Palavenian pride will change that. And if money’s the only motivator, then they’ll either fight too dirty or show their backs if the fight gets too tough.

Fact two. Zaeed was hired by Cerberus for our ‘impossible mission.’ And by all accounts, he came out with the advantage, the story, and the cash up front. Besides that, he never expressed the same turncoat loyalty to Shepard the way Miranda Lawson or Jacob Taylor did, so there’s no way Cerberus would target him. He has no reason to sic unknown commandos at the terrorist organization, or even involve himself in their petty game. After Shepard went rogue, he had more than enough credits to retire.

But he flat out said he wouldn’t. ‘Too much at stake now,’ he said.

Fact three. A cursory search on the sisters yielded nothing substantial. They were the heads of a very small, but effective private military company. They were ‘young,’ both in their Maiden years at three hundred and change. Other than each other, no family to speak of. Their father was turian, long dead by now, and their mother died on Tayseri during Sovereign’s dance across the Wards. Well-off, but not wealthy, effective, but not illegal. As if they were trying very hard to be forgettable.

Which turns out is a _very_ useful skill for a merc.

Fact four. There’s no love lost for Cerberus. We did good work under their banner, but the Illusive Man showed his true colors in the end. Power for power’s sake, and too manipulative and ruthless for his own good. If a couple of mercs wanted to target him, then the humans say it best. Kill two birds with one stone.

But that unfortunately leads to fact five. Their deal with Elkoss depends on my government spending. It’s one thing for mercs to plunder as they please. It’s another thing entirely for the Hierarchy to target a human organization, no matter how horrific. Going after Cerberus while under a Hierarchal contract is just enough of a grey area to make my plates itch. If these two slip, even once, then we could have another human-turian war on our hands.

If I take the deal, I’ll have weapons, supplies and a small task force at my disposal. If I don’t, I have a clear conscience and colonies full of corpses.

And yet something about the circumstances nags at me. Cerberus is too much of an enigma for me to trust. On one hand, they brought Shepard back to life. On the other, the countless experiments, throwing away lives under the guise of human advancement? No one can trust them, and the sooner they’re out of the picture, the better. There’s no telling the outcome if the Illusive Man gained control of the Collector base, or if they still had their claws in the derelict Reaper. The only certainty is the loss of all those lives. Shouldn’t I prevent that, if given the chance? Wasn’t that one of the reasons I went to Omega? Stayed there?

I gaze at the ceiling, willing answers to show themselves. There’s bound to be something I’m missing, but what?

On a lark, I open my omni-tool and type out a message to Liara. If she’s still in the information brokering trade, then maybe she can track down his movements after we parted ways. Zaeed booked passage to spirits unknown on Illium, though I found it odd that we didn’t run into her while we were there. She may have a lead.

I give the message a once-over, then press send. Satisfied, I close out my tool, rest my head against the pillows, and wait for sleep.

 

**Shepard**

“And now we have that damn thing on my ship,” I lament to Joker. “I mean, you saw the reports. That _thing_ came from some ancient, hopefully extinct alien race from a fucking million years ago, and those bastards look like Reapers.” I drum my fingers on the co-pilot console. “What the _fuck_ are we getting ourselves into?”

“Damn Shepard, if you’re asking _me_ that, then we’re both screwed,” he replies, sipping his coffee. “I mean, we have it locked down best we can, right? Those researchers even said it’s not Reaper tech. Maybe we don’t have anything to worry about for once.”

I look up. “I mean, if EDI’s got a say in it, we don’t.”

“Please rest assure I have deployed kinetic barriers and signal scramblers around the artifact,” the AI’s voice declares. “While I did not detect the same adaptive algorithms present in Reaper technology, this device does show biological similarities to data uncovered by the Thorian. However, the data found on the Thorian is incomplete. These similarities may only be superficial.”

“What kind of similarities?” I ask.

“Primarily the ability to transfer information to organics, in a way similar to modern quantum entanglement systems. The artifact appears capable of this feat, though it remains in a dormant state.”

_More good news._

“Thanks, EDI,” I say. I slump further into the chair. “At best we’ve got one half of a broken puzzle piece, and who knows what’s on the other end?”

“I dunno, Shepard,” Joker interjects. “Sounds more like a Prothean beacon when you think about it.”

“True. And look how that turned out,” I mutter.

“Shepard.” EDI’s pale blue avatar pops up on the console. “I notice that your biometrics are unusually elevated. Are you well?”

_Huh. She’s never really asked me that before._

“Shepard’s what we call ‘cranky,’ EDI,” Joker says.

“I’m fine,” I grumble. “It’s just… Joker, you remember your first time in a ship? Not like Arcturus when we were all kids, but out here for the first time, really on your own?”

“Getting sentimental on me?” he asks sardonically.

“No, just.” I stare out at the black void. “We had no fucking clue what was out here. We still don’t. And on top of that, there’s extinct shit, entire civilizations, whole galactic _empires_ , wasted on these fucking Reapers.” I stare at him, taking in the sight of his moss-green eyes, and weary features. “We’re not going to be next.”

He stares back, mug locked in one hand. Then he sighs. “Glad you’re in charge, then,” he says with a lop-sided smile. “Look, I don’t know what ‘s going to happen. And yeah, maybe that thing in the hold is gonna bite us in the ass. But you know what we’ve learned in all of this?”

“What’s that?”

“Alliance coffee is still dogshit.” He grins at me.

“Ass,” I say, shaking my head. “You really gotta work on your priorities.”

“Hey, good coffee is a damn good priority!” he protests. He hands me his mug and gives me puppy-dog eyes. “For your favorite pilot?”

“You’re lucky you’re good at flying,” I say with a mock grimace. “We’ll talk later, Joker.”

“All right, see ya.”

I exit the bridge and make my way toward the crew deck. Like it or not, I need more information on this artifact, which means going back to the Citadel with those researchers in tow. Based on what EDI said, I can’t risk having this unknown device activate. Those wall paintings look too much like Reapers, too much like the real thing. Even if that orb isn’t a Reaper device, it’s reasonable to think it’s tech the Reapers are familiar with. I can’t shake the feeling that this paperweight is both a lynchpin and the epitome of bad news.

But then again, my brain _was_ fried by a Prothean device, so maybe I’m just a tad bit biased.

As I head toward the mess, I hear deliberate footsteps behind me. I turn, and see Tela Vasir, another goddamn anomaly haunting my ship. I give her a wan smile and hold up a mug.

“Don’t suppose you drink the stuff,” I say as way of greeting.

“Not even,” she scoffs. “Caffeine does strange things to asari.” She looks from side to side, scoping the room before turning back to me. “Listen. No one anticipated that device. You humans stumbled on something big. More than your government alone can handle. We need the right people on it.”

I stare hard at the Spectre. “Look, you must be crazy if you think I’m going to turn it over to the Council, or your damn Republics, when we don’t even know what it does–”

“Are you crazy?” she interrupts. She draws a short breath and looks off to the side. “Your quarters. Five minutes.”

My eyes narrow. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Five minutes,” she says, turning heel back to where she came from.

And swear I damn near break my neck from rolling my eyes.

**~*~**

Once in my cabin, I pace the floor, check my small arms locker, and splash water on my face. I’m annoyed, pissed even, from all this cloak and dagger bullshit on my own damn frigate. She might be helping, hasn’t stabbed me in the back, but I still don’t trust her.

_On top of that, she’s calling you crazy. What’s her angle?_

Like clockwork I hear the familiar ping at my door, and I find myself irritated at her punctuality. I let her in and watch as she breezes past me, stopping briefly to scoff at my fish tank.

“Cerberus has more of a soft side than I’d expect,” she says. Before I can respond, she holds up a hand and continues. “Not why I’m here. Look, as a Spectre, there are basic things you have to learn. And since I don’t have the time or patience to let you flounder around the hard way, I’ll tell it to you straight right now.”

I can’t help but bristle at the statement, but remain silent.

“We cannot involve the Council with this artifact, or we lose our edge to bureaucratic nonsense. The Salarian Union will want to bogart the study of it, the turians will want to weaponize it and advance their own agendas, and my own damn people will cover it up and hide that it even exists.” She leans against the wall with the deceptive ease of a trained killer. “Your people are wildcards, but I imagine you can tell me a similar story.”

_I hate to admit it, but…_

“Yeah,” I concede. “So what are you suggesting?”

“First off, on this assignment, we report to the Council on a very need to know basis. Second, we get in touch with the Shadow Broker on this.” She folds her arms. “He’s got the resources we need to investigate. Time, money, patience, and scientists.”

_He, huh?_

I barely control flinching at this remark. “That’s a pretty tall order,” I comment, trying to keep the ruse up, if only a little. Part of me knows damn well I want Liara in on this. The day I met her, she was insistent that there were civilizations out there long before the Protheans. If she saw proof of that, saw decades of research validated…

Well, it’d be one hell of a good day for an asari scientist.

“Getting a message out is risky,” I say out loud. “Comm buoys are out of the question since we’re running silent. We should arrange a meeting in person to deal with it. Furthermore,” I add, shrugging at the asari, “this is the research team’s discovery. We can’t just yank this shit from under them.”

“Then make them think it was their idea. Your people can’t possibly have all the resources needed to study this thing.” A wry look passes her face. “Based on what we saw on that planet, they might as well work with slide rules and eyeball it.”

_True._

“Better resources and facilities to study the artifact, stroke their egos a bit, for just a bit of information sharing,” I say to myself.

“It’s a start,” Vasir replies.

“And you seriously trust the Shadow Broker over the Council?” I ask. I know _I_ do, but _she_ doesn’t know that. Or she’s only letting on that she doesn’t.

_Christ this is confusing._

“This isn’t about trust. As far as the Council’s concerned, anything bigger than a trade summit gets buried or ignored. Besides, even if this Reaper thing wasn’t a threat, the possibility of an unknown advanced race deserves investigation.” She holds out fingers and counts. “What are they like? Hostile, like the rachni? Do they have colonies of their own? Or are they dead, like all the other ancients?” she finishes bitterly.

“Point made.” I sigh. “We’ll head back to the Citadel. Use the QEC to make contact with your source. They’re to meet us in public when we arrive.”

“Perfect,” Vasir says, a smirk painted on her face. “You won’t regret taking my advice.”

“See that I won’t,” I reply.

 

**Garrus**

I wake – too soon – to the insistent chirping from the alarm. The vestiges of nightfall fade away outside, and with it, thoughts of money, mercs, and military protocol. Yawning, I drag myself out of bed, turn off the alarm, and roll my shoulders back. Another day, another romp through red tape.

I’ll put the notion of those sisters behind me for now. There’s no telling what Liara’s up to these days, and it could take weeks, or even months to locate Massani. I shuffle to the tiny kitchen, feeling a bit foolish for even ruminating about the ordeal. As I reach for some charra fruit and leftover wings from the fridge, I review a list of tasks from my omni-tool.

Fedorian’s assistant sent over new data regarding the colonies. As predicted, most of them agreed to new and improved shelters with no hesitation. Many consulates, those closer to the Hierarchy, set aggressive construction schedules with the goal of finishing by next Twin Perigee. For those citizens, shoring up strongholds was the prudent choice; Eden Prime still echoed in their minds, and self-preservation is one hell of a draw.

For the other colonies, cooperation proved more problematic. According to the reports, most are reluctant, but not unwilling to clean up the infrastructure. Which all sounds fine in print, but the underlying animosity is plain to see. They want more concessions for half the commitment, and all of the credit for thinking of it first. Eventually I’ll need to meet with the outlier consulates in person to gain their favor.

The other task at hand is an upcoming trade summit on the Citadel. Fedorian wants me to attend, meet with our representative, and gather knowledge on the other races’ preparation efforts, if any. Left unsaid is the fear we’re the only galactic power mobilizing. His worst-case scenario is we’re wrong, and we look like war-mongers for nothing.

_My_ worst-case is a bit different, but our need for the other races to prepare is the same.

According to the documents, several Council ambassadors will attend the summit. Each race provides a brief update on their governmental state of affairs, and when necessary, reach out to each other for joint efforts. The original _Normandy_ was funded from one of these meetings, as well as many long-standing trade agreements between the Hierarchy, Vol Protectorate, even the Asari Republics.

To say I’m thrilled… well, that’s an overstatement. It’s one of those prestigious honors that any other turian would revel in, but I’ve never had a love for politics. This summit is all well and good, but if it can’t produce what I need, then it’s a waste of time.

As I sit at the table, idly chewing, a thought occurs to me. In my best-case scenario, where all the colonies ‘play ball,’ as the humans say, that’s over a dozen planets to oversee, each with several outposts and shelters. Sharing the work, having a crew… it may prove necessary before long. The mere notion of having more people answering to me causes a strange mix of unease and resolve. If it comes to it, I’ll have to do better this time around. If I don’t, or worse, if I can’t, then–

My omni-tool pings. A message from Zaeed.

_Damn, Liara. You work fast._

_=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=_

_Kid. Heard you had eyes on some old beauties. Can speak for the relics, myself. As good a gun as my girl Jesse. Gut you in your sleep if you’re not careful. You understand. I’ve got Jacob right in my sights with his wife, Bilha. Meet me at Fifth and Snakehead in a couple days, and I’ll buy you a pint._

_Z._

_P.S. The heat’s a bitch here._

_=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=_

I stare at the message long and hard. What the hell was he up to that lead him to Bekenstein? Either Terminus-speak’s gotten too easy to crack, or Zaeed is being a complete idiot. For one, never say the planet’s codename if it matches a known mutual associate. He could’ve just said a ‘financial black hole,’ or something more stylish. Either way, it’s good to know he’s keeping busy. Though if the last line means with I think, a little _too_ busy. I type in a response.

_=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=_

_No one says Fifth and Snakehead anymore. C-SEC caught wise to that years ago. There’s more scratches on that gun than I’ve got scars. I’ll take you up on that pint._

_G._

_P.S. Remember to stay hydrated._

_=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=_

 

I drum my nails against the countertop, looking over the first message. I stride back to the bedroom, meal and other plans forgotten. Once inside, I pack the usual: clean clothes, under armor, guns, knives, a datapad, and Mother Menea plate cream. Don my armor, a new set ‘gifted’ to me by Sol, though my gut tells me a favor is just over the horizon. Finally, I reach for the flask left on my desk. I shove that in an armor compartment, grab my gear, and head back out.

I pack the skycar and open up my omni-tool, ready to book passage to the Citadel. Chanting to myself the entire time that Zaeed can handle himself. He’s lasted this long against impossible odds. He survived a shot to the face. What could possibly be worse than that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminus Speak is _very_ problematic according to certain mercenary outfits, and there are several blogs on the extranet dedicated to swapping to a more inclusive language among the "morally unrestricted."
> 
> Garrus's reply is closer to the codes he and his squad developed on Omega.


	9. Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard meets a contact on the Citadel. Garrus also meets a contact on the Citadel.
> 
>  
> 
> They do not meet each other. :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an ironic title name, right? Thank you to everyone that reads this. Y'all are seriously the best.

**Shepard**

Days later, we’re docked on the all-too-familiar, all-too-massive space station. The heart of the galaxy, a beacon of technological marvel and diplomacy, and easily the most dangerous, dormant trap in cosmic history. I couldn’t say what bothers me the most, but I’d put my money on the population. Too many politicians, diplomats, and scientists, all with clout in the galactic theater. If Sovereign had his way back then, we’d all be zombie-things.

And after all that, this place is so... normal.

I watch as James and the research team shuffle out of the airlock, notably without the device in tow. It must stay within EDI’s barriers until we’re certain the artifact isn’t an indoctrination bomb. While daughter Dr. Bryson reports to father Dr. Bryson, Vasir and I will pull strings to get Liara’s people on the team. Another worst-laid plan, but we have to unlock that artifact’s secrets.

Vasir and Kaidan leave the ship last. Vasir, looking undeniably smug says, “We’re meeting our contact at Lystanna’s Bakery. I’m bringing the rookie with us.” She points at Kaidan, who doesn’t look pleased with the nickname. Considering he’s technically my superior officer, I don’t blame him. But Alliance rank went out the airlock the moment the word ‘Spectre’ entered the conversation.

“Noted,” I reply. “Let’s get to it, then.”

We march toward the garages, pile in Vasir’s curiously new bright yellow skycar, and make the short, silent trek to the rendezvous point. We arrive at Shalta Ward, renamed since the passing of some famous matriarch or another. The arm is filled with famous faces, busy handlers, and bright colors amid the perpetual twilight. It’s the type of place known for spotting actors and vid stars, making it oddly perfect for staying under the radar.

The bakery is a tucked away shop hidden among the flashing lights of other vendors and dealerships. It’s damn near cheerful compared to the rest of the ward with its crisp, pink walls and cinnamon aroma. We step inside, lightly armed, but no armor. A few patrons give us dubious looks before shuffling out of our way. I scan the room, but none of these people stand out.

“Well, well. I had a feeling they’d let you off the leash soon enough.”

I turn.

My eyes are playing me. It hasn’t been _that_ long, but here I am, face to face with a familiar stranger. I have to look closer, past the chunky, reinforced jacket and stark-black boots, to truly see her. Frost-blue eyes set in an eerily symmetrical face, but that’s the only constant. Her hair’s changed, dark locks replaced with some dirty-blonde, half-shaved job that screams ‘incognito.’ But the voice, the eyes, the same affected, cool smile.

“Miranda,” I say with a grin. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Shepard. You’d do well to change your appearance, too. Intel clearly states that you’re running silent. And while you can’t change your face entirely–”

“Except _you_ probably could–”

“–You _can_ ,” she continues, glaring at me, “put in a token effort to stay out of sight.”

Kaidan coughs loudly behind me.

“Oh! Uh...” I start. “Miranda, this is–”

“Major Kaidan Alenko,” she finishes. “The new Head of the Alliance Biotics Division.” She flashes him a superior look as she says, “I’ve been briefed.”

“Uh... yeah,” he replies, shaking her hand. “And you’re... Miranda?”

“That’s right,” she says, folding her arms.

“ _The_ Miranda?” he asks, turning to me.

I nod.

“Problem, Alenko?” Vasir asks.

“No! Just uh... You weren’t what I was expecting. Is all. Ma’am.”

I feel my face contort, unable to decide whether to laugh hysterically or punch the ever-loving shit out of Kaidan. And the way I hear the asari draw in breath, I can tell she’s having a similar debate.

_This is your lot in life, V. Vintage Kaidan losing his damn cool and Miranda taking fashion cues from the psychotic biotic._

“If we’re all done here,” Vasir says sternly, “Can we order some kleypa scones and... whatever you humans eat and get down to business?”

I grimace in agreement and follow the asari to the kiosk. Miranda follows behind me with Kaidan hot on her tail, and I suddenly think about Ash’s quip about walking drag. I blink back the sting in my eyes before ordering, settle for some festive-looking bagel thing and plop in a seat across the other Spectre.

I steal a glance at the former operative, still in line chatting up Kaidan, before addressing the asari. “So. ‘Cerberus friends kept good notes,’ huh?” I study her, searching for any tells, but this damn blue girl must’ve had a turian dad for how stony her face is. “How many days after we defected?”

“When she became my contact? About two weeks,” she replies lazily. “That’s what, an eighth of your lifespan?”

“In our line of work, probably,” I mutter.

She laughs, this harsh, sharp guffaw that no one would ever try to fake. She looks at me a bit longer before replying, “Point taken.”

Miranda makes her way to the table followed a little too closely for my liking by Kaidan. She sits beside me, Kaidan across her, and a wild thought enters my head. More goddamn biotics. And if Miranda winds up tagging along, I’m going to have to triple the rations and stock up on sour mints.

_Focus, V. Ugly-ass orb in your cargo bay, remember?_

As if hearing my thoughts, Miranda asks, “So this artifact was in the Pylos Nebula? There’s virtually nothing out there in the way of modern developments, but ancient might be another story.” She turns to me. “Cerberus never explored the region. Between the asari and vorcha failure, the turian presence, and absurd cost of getting out there, it was never worth our effort.”

I grin. “What, the ‘last gas station within a hundred light years’ wasn’t appealing?”

“That sign was idiotic,” she replies with a smirk. “At any rate, we have accounts of _something_ unusual, but it’s regarded as more of a novelty.” Miranda turns to Tela Vasir. “Your people first discovered the planet Siano. Is there any information, ancient texts, or documents that the asari kept?”

“That damn place,” Vasir mutters. “You get the odd scientist or conspiracy theorist every few decades that study the planet, but nothing conclusive ever pans out. Now it’s treated with more distain than the Reaper theory.” She flags down the salarian waiter carrying our food and stabs into her scone like she’s half-starved. “It’s always appealing at first. ‘Oh look, a planet in retrograde. Oh look, a bunch of dusty old relics.’ Trite, if you think about it. All these Prothean artifacts scattered across the galaxy, but people lose their damn minds over ancient bunkers on a planet that doesn’t belong in the system.”

Miranda and I exchange a glance. Kaidan, seeing something in my face, leans forward.

“Come again?” he asks.

Vasir rolls her eyes. “The planet shouldn’t exist. That’s – that’s the entire point of Siano’s teachings.” She sets down her fork and steeples her hands. “Siano’s Legacy. ‘You cannot find yourself until you lose yourself.’ _The Traveler’s Creed_ , passed down from Matriarch to Maiden in the early days, a staple of space travel itself. Going where you don’t belong.”

I give her an incredulous look. “That’s oddly romantic.”

“It’s naive,” she retorts. “That kind of attitude led to the Rachni Wars, and just about every galactic skirmish since. Anyway,” she says, picking up her fork, “the planet’s named after her because it shouldn’t exist. It came from another system and got stuck. Mystery solved.”

“So why that planet?” Kaidan asks. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to search the planet with obvious Reaper influence? Or whatever we’re calling these ‘proto-Reapers’ they found?”

“That’s the obvious course of action,” Miranda says. “As well as a team to research that artifact. However, the Shadow Broker wishes to employ resources to investigate every possible alternative.”

“That planet’s a waste of time,” Vasir mutters. “We’re better off looking somewhere with actual ancient artifacts. Like that planet of yours.” She points at me. “Eden Primate? Something like that?”

“Goddamn it, Vasir,” I start. Then realization hits me like a warp field. “...Shit. Eden Prime. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I’m on it, Shepard,” Miranda says, prim, business-like and ever the ice queen.

“I mean, you people _were_ researching the place after you found the beacon, right?” Vasir continues.

Kaidan rubs the back of his neck while Miranda whips out her omni-tool. “Technically, yes.” He sighs. “The excavation project was turned over to the Alliance when the beacon was discovered. But once Saren attacked the colony, research funding got cut in lieu of adding ground support. The project’s now split by private corporations. Exogeni and Delta Pavonis share the cost now.”

The asari’s eyes narrow. “How the hell do you go from two Spectres eyeing the damn thing...” She scoffs and takes a bite of her scone.

Miranda pauses her typing long enough to glare at Vasir. “We’re on it,” she says tersely.

Kaidan clears his throat and gives me a meaningful look. For a second, I can’t help but feel bad for him. There’s out of the loop, and there’s confusing the loop for a vorcha on ice skates. I glance back, giving him what I hope is a reassuring smile.

...And from the hard-set look in his eyes, it doesn’t work.

_Dammit._

“I gotta hit the head,” I blurt out, standing.

“Same,” Kaidan says, looking me dead in the eye.

 “Of course, Commander,” Miranda says crisply. “I imagine by the time you return, we’ll have a proper course of action.”

I heave a sigh and head toward the restrooms behind a back corner. I hear Kaidan’s footfall behind me and I can almost feel the shitfit he’s having.

“Ronnie,” he hisses. “What the hell is going on?”

_Keep calm, V. Keep calm and come clean._

“Look, Kai. A lot happened, alright?” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose before leaning against the tiled wall. “I’ll give you the short version, but you’ve gotta trust me on this.”

“How can I trus–” He lowers his voice into a whisper. “There’s a Cerberus officer sitting at our damn table! She’s saying ‘we’re on it’ like she’s got some kind of authority, and you’re glaring daggers at this Spectre that turns up out of nowhere!” He runs his hand from his face to his hair. “I want to trust you, Shepard, but this is bigger than what you’re telling me.”

“Fair,” I say, looking at the light fixture on the ceiling. Yet again I find myself wishing for the simpler times of chasing after geth with him and Garrus, blowing up labs and hunting rogue Spectres. If nothing else, we were friends then. He trusted me. He still can.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

I pull him in close, and I feel a familiar and foreign pang of intimacy. “Vasir tried to kill Liara because the Shadow Broker ordered her to. I let her live because I’m an idiot. Then Liara and I killed the ugliest thing on two legs and now she’s the new Shadow Broker,” I whisper in a rush. “Miranda got a new job with a haircut to match. Pretty sure you can do the math from there.”

He steps back and stares at me for a long tense moment, studying my face like he used to all those years ago. _A lifetime ago._ With a sigh, he puts his hands on his hips. “Say I believe that,” he starts.

“It’s the truth,” I say plainly.

“...‘Ugliest thing on two legs?’”

Ngh, right. “Yahg. Imagine a thresher maw in pinstripes.”

He raises his head just enough to give me the galaxy’s most incredulous look. He scoffs, “Always thought he’d be a volus.”

I smile wryly. “Liara thought so too.”

“Do they...?” He cocks his head forward, and though they’re out of eyesight, he glances around and scans the area.

“Miranda does,” I reply. “Vasir’s a wildcard, though.”

“Yeah,” he says sharply. “Noted. Do you trust them?”

“Do you trust me?” I shoot back. I look him in the eye, the same coffee-brown eyes that meant so much to me. Eyes that used to say trust. Fuck if I know what they say now.

He looks back at me, and a small, sad smile passes across his face. “Follow you into battle,” he starts.

I blink, and a sharp sting hits my eyes all over again. “Follow you into hell,” I say back, praying that my voice stays level.

“Follow you on the dance floor.”

“Now that’s a hard sell,” I finish. I grin at him, and it finally, _finally_ feels like things are going to be fine. “C’mon. Let’s finish up here and save a fucking galaxy.”  


**Garrus**

I arrive at Zakara ward, still unsure why Zaeed picked this arm of all places. It’s sloppy, even by his standards to broadcast locations over a comm, unless I was missing a crucial detail. Or perhaps I’m over-thinking it. He’s still Zaeed, after all.

Slinging my gear over my shoulder, I walk through the checkpoint and show my new clearance. As I walk through the corridors, I take note of the security weaknesses Thane, Kasumi and I pointed out all those months ago. A tiny pang of regret hits me. Thinking about old times does that more and more these days.

I crane my neck, heave a sigh, and move on. First order of business is book a room, then find Zaeed.

Out of the five Wards, Zakara is easily the most mundane posting next to the Presidium. Not rough like Tayseri, and no high-profile detail like Shalta. Instead, the arm housed strip mall after brightly-colored strip mall, dance clubs, restaurants, and stately condos. Any C-SEC officer worth their badge wanted to have a home here, and an assignment anywhere else.

I book a room at Stargaze Hotel & Spa, some quaint place in a quiet part of the ward. Once in my room I check my omni-tool, shaking my head at the veteran’s colorful word choices. Wherever he _was_ , he’s safe now, filling his flask at Dark Star. I pack a side arm just in case and walk out the door.

Once at the club, I head inside and take in the crowd, the pulsing lights, and deep bass filling the room. Given the clientele, Massani should be easy to spot. Save for a giant, hulking Alliance male, no one here carries themselves with combat finesse. The old merc should stand out like a varren in a bookstore.

What I don’t expect, is said man leaning on the counter with two shots in front of him, one black, one clear. Instead of his usual lop-sided armor, a sniper’s hallmark if I ever saw one, he looks half his size in a green shirt and khaki fatigues, held up by two ridiculous-looking suspenders. He’s deep in conversation with a pale-faced human woman, likely regaling another one of his ‘yarns.’

“Wish I could say the scenery’s gotten better around these parts,” I say, loud enough for him to hear.

Without missing a beat, he nods to the bartender, then turns to me with a wide grin stretched across his marred face. “Vakarian, old bird! Pull up a chair.” He turns back to the bartender. “That’s what I was telling you. Kid never disappoints, even when he’s got that stick up his ass.” He pushes the black concoction towards me. “Bit of a peace offering there.”

I pick up the shot, turning it in my hand warily. “Peace offering? We didn’t exactly part on bad terms.”

“The night’s still young.” He winks at me, as much a threat as a term of endearment. “Plenty of time to take a breather with an old friend. Listen, miss,” he says, eyes back to the bartender. “I gotta catch up with my friend, and a bartender to stay in good graces with.” He jabs a finger to the woman and smiles warmly. “Be a peach and help me kill two birds with one stone.”

She rolls her eyes and smirks at him, then whisks away, all business. Zaeed watches her go before turning his knowing leer at me. My eyes drift towards the dance floor, and something about the lights and people tugs at me briefly.

“How’re you holding up, turian?” Zaeed asks gruffly.

“Oh, you know. Political dealings, meeting with mercenaries, the usual.” I turn back to the veteran. “Funny, that. I hear from two ‘blue girls,’” I air quote, “that a certain ‘Merlino’ is a regular fount of knowledge on taking out terrorist organizations.” I lean in, taking the proffered shot. “What happened?”

He scoffs and takes the shot in front of him. “You’ve been under a rock, Vakarian. You keep your ear to the ground, and you’ll find plenty of reasons to take them on. And if you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, you wouldn’t be so keen to tiptoe around it.”

I feel myself bristle at that, but I restrain myself. _It’s Zaeed, he can’t piss two feet without getting under someone’s plates._ I signal another bartender for two more shots. “I saw my share, Massani. But please, feel free to enlighten me.”

He leans in, glass eye glittering against the neon green light show. “Whatever happened to that sniper’s patience, eh?” He drops his empty glass against the counter. “Look, kid. Don’t know who you got to contact me, but you did it at the right time. I got a target in my sights, and he affects you and yours, too. So to speak.”

“Target–” I blink, looking around the club dumbly. “What, _now_? Who?”

“Not _now_ , you daft cock! An hour, _minimum_. Time and a half enough to lay the goddamned scene.” He scoffs again as his eyes scan the club. “Let’s just say, Cerberus wanted more out of me, and I wasn’t buying. Negotiations went a bit sour, and now...” he trails off, looking towards the entrance.

“Now?” I prod.

“Now I’m willing to lend advice to blue girls and point them in the right direction, is now,” he says tersely. “Don’t know if you got the gist of my message, but they have my seal of approval.”

I raise a talon to my neck and drum out a short pattern. “Let’s explore that later,” I manage. “Go back to this target of yours. Hour minimum and he affects me how?”

“I’m not one for politics, Vakarian. But this mark’s got two points of interest. One,” he points his stubby finger at me, “is that he’s been a leaky goddamn faucet for Cerberus. That was enough to bring me on board.”

“And the second?” I press.

“The second,” he says with a mirthless chuckle, “is what interests you.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a heavily creased piece of paper. He passes it to me. “Take a gander.”

Frowning, I open the rumpled mass. My hands still. “You’ve got to be joking me.” I look up at the club entrance, over at the bartender, then back at the sneering man in front of me. “You can’t.”

Zaeed raises his chin at me, sneer making way for a look of confusion. “You going soft on me, turian?”

“No!” I splutter. “It’s just. Y-you can’t just...” I look around, searching the room for anyone within earshot. I lean in closer. “You can’t just name a volus ambassador as your damn mark!” I growl.

“Well I guess he should’ve thought of that before he started working for scum.” He folds his arms and spits into his glass.

“Aren’t you forgetting _we_ worked for the same scum?” I ask. I stick with disgust over his secretion habit rather than the deeper nuances hypocrisy has to offer.

“We worked for Shepard,” he says simply. “Besides, we had the good sense to pick up sticks and get out. More than I can say for the volus.”

“Damn it, Zaeed. You can’t,” I repeat lamely. “This doesn’t add up. How do you know you have all the facts? Who put you up to this?”

“Your own kind, Vakarian.” He spits again. “Some hotshot by the name of Elio Nazarius. Whined that his hands were tied since you turians are too cozied up with them. He reckoned the right opportunity from an outside force will set things back in favor.”

“You can’t have me believe any of that at face value,” I reply, recalling the last set of military briefings Fedorian’s assistant sent. “He works under General Victus, and they’re ass deep in the middle of their own problems. Why would he bother?”

“Revenge.” He stares me down with his good eye. “That got your attention, eh? Ain’t a damn thing more universal.” His voice drops lower. “Nazarius, you see, had a son. _Had_. Nothing like waking up one day, knowing you’ll never see your own flesh and blood again.” He squints his eyes, then leans back in his barstool. “But credits are credits,” he finishes roughly.

“You’re not doing this for money,” I say, realization creeping in my voice. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were fighting on the side of honor for once.” I look back down at the rumpled document, and a fresh thought creeps through my head. He’s better off alive, sure, but this volus might be better off grateful. “You’re not going to kill him.” I push the paper toward him. “You won’t need to.”

“You got something better planned, kid?” Zaeed grins, and again it feels more like a threat than endearment, and not entirely pleasant.

For some reason I wonder how Wrex is doing.

“Not a perfect plan,” I admit. “But a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kleypa scones uses similar baking techniques as a treacle scone, but uses spices native to Thessia. Vasir is basically a monster because she didn't order a side of clotted cream.


	10. Going Back to the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus face the minor challenges of reuniting with old friends.

**Garrus**

Imperfect. A simple word that describes so much in any given moment. It softens the blow between expectation and failure. Imperfect acknowledges the details, then pushes them out in favor of the big picture. Unfortunately, when imperfect describes pistol-whipping a tenured volus ambassador, the word loses some of its romance.

“This really wasn’t part of the plan,” I mutter, looking down at the whimpering mass.

“Plan was crap anyway,” Zaeed growls. He digs his elbow into a pressure point on Din Korlack’s suit. The whimpering stops abruptly. “Little shitnugget’s gonna start stinking up the place. Let’s get him to the car quick.”

We take turns hauling the ambassador the not-quite-short distance towards the lot, and stuff him unceremoniously in the back seat of Zaeed’s skycar. All the while I tick off how many laws we’re breaking. Reckless endangerment, aggravated assault, kidnapping, conspiracy, to name a few. If what Zaeed says is true, the little volus won’t fare much better. At least one act of treason against the Hierarchy, which if proven true exonerates me and Zaeed at the expense of complete political upheaval.

The veteran’s right about one thing. Even through my helmet, the volus reeks of urine and wine.

“‘I just want to talk,’ he says. ‘No need to kill him,’ he says,” Zaeed gripes. “And wouldn’t you know, the minute that little rat sack of shit starts getting pissy, someone decides to go full tilt Omega.” He gives me a baleful look and sucks in a breath. “Kid, you need to get laid.”

I roll my eyes, but say nothing.

“Right, touchy subject,” he says, holding up his hands. “Forget I said anything.”

“Noted.”

“I’m just tickled pink right down to my asshole about what we’ve got to talk about with a treacherous piece of shit,” Zaeed complains. “You should’ve just let me kill him, and then we’d be back to reminiscing like old goddamn chums.”

“We had a quick skirmish go sideways,” I deadpan. “If that’s not nostalgic, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. He points out the window. “Here. Turn here. Good enough spot as any.”

I turn into a dark corner and dock the car onto a landing pad. Zaeed opens the door before I even turn the car off, muttering about the smell. In the back, the ambassador’s breathing hitches, and I hear him exhale in ragged sobs.

“He’s coming to,” I announce.

“Wonderful,” Zaeed says, spitting off to the side. “I’ll just set out the cozies and put a kettle on.” He fixes his good eye on the volus as I drag him out of the car. “Goddamned catastrophe when Cerberus has the vols in their pocket.”

“Maybe after this,” I grunt, “you can tell me why you’ve got such sour raisins over them.”

“Grapes.”

“Same thing,” I mutter.

I drop Korlack in front of us and scan his vitals. Elevated heart rate for a volus, temperature dropping, breathing regulating somewhat. Still in shock, but coming to.

Now to pick between playing good cop or bad cop.

“Oooh... where, where am I?” Korlack moans. “Where did you take me?” He tries and fails to get up, stumbling back to the ground. “You won’t... get away with this. C-SEC will check every arm on the Citadel when they realize I’m missing.”

“Yeah, and they’ll saw off _your_ arms once they find out you’ve been double-dealing,” Zaeed says harshly. “Go on, then. Go to C-SEC, see if I care.”

_Good cop it is._

“What my colleague here is trying to say,” I begin in the gentlest tone I can muster, “is that we’ve been made aware of some recent transgressions.” I crouch down to eye level with the slumped over volus. “And I hate to say it, but these transgressions would ruin all the work you’ve done for your people.”

“You... I can’t possibly know what you’re talking about! This is an outrage! I demand–”

“Oh shut your whining!” Zaeed growls. “You’re deep in Cerberus shit, and the key players already smell it on you. The turians want blood, you son of a bitch.”

“But if you sever ties, we may be able to come up with an amiable solution,” I offer.

“What do you want? Money?” The volus lurches forward, swaying heavily against the still air. His movement sets off another odorous wave of alcohol and piss. “I... I can pay.”

_“Make me an offer.” A half-hearted leer._

I shake my head at the thought of her, but it sticks anyway. She would say the circumstances changed, _she_ would say ‘rake him under the coals’ if it meant saving lives, and she’d take his credit chit without a hint of hesitation. For a split second, a wild thought enters my head, and all I can hear is my father admonishing me for it. Urging me to do things the right way and turn him in.

I ignore it.

“Somehow, I don’t think money is going to fix the problem, Ambassador. But...” I draw out the word, and shoot a quick look at Zaeed. “We may be able to find a solution for everyone.”

Massani sucks at his teeth. “What’s he possibly got that I need, turian?”

I inwardly cheer that he knows well enough to not use names. The next part’s going to be bad enough as it is.

“Information,” I say plainly. “You give my friend everything,” I hover menacingly over the volus, “and I do mean everything on Cerberus. Plans, numbers, people, anything you know. Give him that and cut all ties with them.”

“I... I can’t do that!” the volus cries. “They’ll know I turned! Cerberus will be after me! I can’t–”

“After that,” I continue, “you express your public support to the Hierarchy for any and all new war-time efforts, and encourage the Protectorate to do the same.” I lean forward, watching him totter backwards. “In exchange, you’re home free. You’ll have you’re your cozy life as an ambassador exactly as it is, and what you do with it is no concern of ours.”

“I can’t,” he moans.

Zaeed crouches over beside me. “This your great plan, kid?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding back to Korlack. “If he survives the night, he’ll make it to an important summit in the near future. Exactly the kind the Hierarchy cares about and Cerberus would love to crash.” I briefly think about the SR-2, the near-perfect replica of confidential technology. I lean in closer, holding my breath. “And exactly the kind the Protectorate wants future invitations to. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I can’t,” he moans again.

“I believe in you,” I reply. I hear Zaeed scoff.

The eye-lights on his suit flash repeatedly. “Even if... Even if I could, how do I know I can I trust you?” The volus steadies himself once more, and finally gains purchase on his own two feet. Overhead, skycars streak across the cityscape, the light mingling with the buildings and the dull glow of Korlack’s suit.

I stand. “You don’t,” I say in my father’s voice. “That’s why they call it trust.”

I head towards the skycar, Zaeed following suit. As we leave the stunned volus, rooted in place like a monument, Massani claps me on the back.

“Helluva gamble, kid,” he says, chuckling. “Just like old times.”

**Shepard**

As Miranda promised, we ended the night with a makeshift plan in action. The ex-operative, through whatever crazy strings our Shadow Broker friend pulled, got us clearance with ExoGeni to investigate Eden Prime. Two Spectres on the scene draws the wrong kind of attention, so we’re opting against revealing that tidbit unless absolutely necessary.

Meanwhile the not-Reaper orb is back in the loving hands of the two Dr. Brysons, along with ‘dedicated experts in their field.’ True to Vasir’s word, Miranda gave us hand-picked dossiers featuring new Alliance researchers assigned to the artifact. I glance at the names, scrolling through all the life’s work of Boswick, Flanigan and Garneau, then close out of the report before getting past the Gs. That these so-called Alliance types are clearly double-dealing sets me on edge, but that’s a glass house I don’t want to touch. Intel is intel, and at least _now_ , the Shadow Broker is someone I trust with my life.

In the meantime, we have one more day to get supplies, nurse James’ hangover, and stock up on those sour mints.

We walk through the Shalta markets and I pull up a roster. “Kaidan, Vasir,” I order. “Grab up any useful supplies and report back to the ship. Miranda and I will do the same.”

“On it, Shepard,” Kaidan replies before heading out with the asari.

I turn to the half-shaved woman. “You look good, Miranda.”

And other than the dye-job and new, slightly more armored look, she did. Gone was the skindex and heels, replaced with attire meant for combat at a moment’s notice. She looks more like a true operative and less like a Cerberus lackey.

And yet pieces of the Miranda I remember remain. The ever-perfect posture, the way she scanned every room as though looking for tactical advantages. Even the tiny goldenrod bird on her jacket seemed so her. Like she couldn’t bear a day without wearing Cerberus colors. Old habits die hard.

“Well, alive at least,” she says with a rare smile. “Not for lack of trying these days, but I’m sure you know all about that.” She beckons me to follow her, and we take up a leisurely pace across the Ward.

I shrug. “Comes with the territory. How’s life as an... uh, ‘intelligence expert’ working out?”

She smiles with a faraway look in her eyes. “Fulfilling. Just when you think you’ve got a bead on where life takes you, a catalyst of sorts points you in an alternate direction.” She gives me a knowing look. “I wish it were as glamorous as it sounds, but what we did came with a risk. Leaving Cerberus and finding ‘alternative employment’ may have saved my life. Frankly it may have saved Ori’s as well.”

“What, by not being on the Illusive Man’s payroll?” I scoff. “Pretty sure we already covered that.”

“Not just what you saw on the surface, Shepard.” She halts and gives me a hard stare. “Before I severed completely, I gathered as much data clearance would grant me. I had a run-in with the Illusive Man. Said it was a ‘pleasure’ working with me, but he needed to ‘contain’ the situation.”

“Shit.” I draw in a short breath, remembering those unnerving eyes, knowing that behind them was a ruthless, indoctrinated madman. “What happened?”

“Well I’m still here, obviously,” she says smugly. “Unfortunately, so is he. As for the data, it points to _something_ brewing. We don’t know what, but he became just as interested in those indoctrination devices as the Alliance.”

She walks again and I hesitate before catching up. “What would he want with them?”

Miranda waves an idle hand. “What did he want with Cerberus period? ‘The advancement of humanity,’ nothing more, nothing less. I don’t need to remind you about the various bio-weapons we studied, cybernetic technology, or even well, you.” She slows her pace as we near a small row of shops. “If I had to guess, which I rarely need to, I’d say he was trying to weaponize those Rho devices.”

I grin. “How’d you know we were calling it that?”

“Besides you telling me just now?” she replies with a cock of her brow. “Turns out we’re everywhere, Commander. I still don’t know the final count yet. And I imagine your asari friend likes to keep it that way.”

“Makes sense,” I say, rolling my shoulder. “Makes it easier if someone gets captured.” I look up, and see a neon sign advertising a salon called Fringe Benefits. I peer inside and see bubbly asari and human ladies scurry around the small shop. “Uh, why are we here?”

“Your appearance, Shepard.” A wild look crosses her face, and for a second I’m reminded of Kasumi when she tried to ‘make an infiltrator’ out of me. “You couldn’t have possibly thought I was joking, could you?”

I look back at Miranda, who _does_ look different enough at first glance. And I chance upon a reflection of myself through the glass. Same brown skin, leaner than I should be, hair a deep red and too long. Finally, I let out a long sigh.

“Christ, are we really doing this?” I mutter.

“Yes.”

“Ground rules: nothing that gives me a tactical disadvantage. No long hair.”

“Done. Anything else?” A too-chipper look flashes across her face. “You have unlimited options.”

I let out a small laugh. “Well I’m not going blonde like you, Miranda. The red stays.”  


**Garrus**

The next day, Zaeed and I part ways and I head towards the transit station bound for Palaven. Overhead, gleaming neon shines everywhere, translucent streaks turning the night sky into countless glowing oil slicks. I maneuver through the crowd, watching the people as a cop would; slight eye contact here, a nod there, ever watchful, ever diligent.

A pang of nostalgia hits me. Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.

As I walk, I go over what I learned last night. Zaeed gunning after Cerberus in the worst way, and almost killed an ambassador for his trouble. The volus, up until now, was nestled firmly in the back pocket of the Illusive Man, which almost explains the credits that funded our suicide mission. And to top it off, Massani really did trust these two merc sisters enough to sic them on the terrorist group, and expected me to follow suit. The only missing piece is what Elkoss Combine got out of it, other than money.

But maybe some mysteries don’t need solving.

Before I realize it, I’m in front of the C-SEC checkpoint at the transit station. Inside, officers mill about, some on omni-tools, others scouring through datapads, or yelling at each other over consoles and coffee. I notice Bailey near his desk, jabbing a finger at a salarian in a lab coat, and Petrali Haron taking in the scene with a stout blonde human.

It’s been ages. Sure, he helped me in passing when Shepard came back, but beyond that I barely spoke more than two sentences to Haron. Once, a lifetime ago, we were partners. Friends, even. The Saren investigation was the turning point. One minute, we were complaining in the break room about chasing after Spectres. The next, I board a ship with a Spectre of my own while he got bumped to glorified guard duty. What if I stayed? What if he came with me to the med clinic?

_What if he’s ready for a change this time?_

Another pang. I walk in.

“Haron, you old spur-scraper,” I call out.

“Shit, Vakarian?” The officer grins wide, then jabs at the human. “Good seeing you! Lang, this fringe-biter? One of the best before he up and ditched us.”

I feel heat creep up my neck. “Not one of the best,” I say dryly. “Just one of the best-looking.”

“Save the humility,” Haron replies. “Say, were you still on the force when this guy came in? Eddie Lang, this is Garrus Vakarian.”

“Mr. Vakarian. Nice to meet you, sir,” the human officer says, holding out a hand.

I take it and give the man a second look. “You look familiar. You were on the beat in lower Bachjret, right?”

“Uh. Yeah! I was, back in ’83.” He glances over at Haron, shocked. “How’d you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” I reply with a smirk. In truth, I remember that he gushed over a very annoyed-out-of-hunger Spectre back in ’83, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“What brings you here?” Haron asks, smile losing some of its enthusiasm. “Last I seen you, half your face was gone and you were gunning with that ghost.”

“Ghost?” Lang asks.

“That uh, Spectre. The human one. Shepard, right?” Haron looks at me, then at Lang. “She’s... not here now, is she?”

“No.” I cross my arms. “Why?”

“Spirits,” he hisses. “You haven’t been docked long, then. Just, if you still keep in contact with her, tell her to stay out of the slummy parts, alright?” He leans against the wall and glances at Bailey, still in a heated ‘discussion’ with the salarian. “We busted up two riots this month down on East Grissom.”

“The little human neighborhood?” I ask. “The hell for?”

“Batarians,” Lang says with a hint of venom. “We get arson calls, people wanting to take matters into their own hands, and before you know it, boom!” He claps. “Chaos in the streets. Then we gotta run ‘em in, and it’s just. Fucking awful.”

“They can’t stop fighting,” Haron says neutrally. “You got one side pissed about Mindoir, another side pissed about Arathot.” He holds out a hand for each side. “ _Both_ pissed about Terra Nova. It’s uncivilized.”

“It’s not uncivilized,” Lang replies, frowning. “And it’s a lot more one-sided than what you’re painting it. Arson is arson. Those batarians are instigating, and you know it.”

“Sure.” Haron shrugs. “But you can’t tell me you wouldn’t be pissed if some nutjob terrorist blew up your planet.”

“I can’t, because some nutjob terrorist almost _did_ blow up our planet,” Lang replies.

“Alright, fine,” he concedes, holding up his hands. “Vakarian, we were just about to go on break. Wanna grab a bite with us?”

I check my omni-tool for any messages. Nothing. “Sure,” I say, looking up. “Just killing time anyway.”

**~*~**

We head to a di-chi place Lang picked out, Cordova’s Diner, and it immediately has the look of a cop haunt. Slouched over patrons, off-duty officers, and nimble salarian and asari wait-staff slinging dishes from a menu that promised grease and coffee.

“So tell me,” Haron starts. “What brings you back out here? Starting to miss busting heads?”

I chuckle. “I think _miss_ it is a little overstating.” _Considering that I can’t seem to part from it._ “What about you? Starting to get soft around the fringe yet? How many more years do you have?”

“As many as the spirits grant me,” he says with a sigh.

“Geez Haron, you make it sound like you’re on your deathbed or something,” Lang says, grinning. “You were running circles around Martinez the other night.”

“Eh, that guy.” Haron waves over an asari, and we order. “Mouthy son of a bitch. All talk until you get into a damn footrace.” Haron cranes his neck back, then eyes me. “Three perps, salarian and two human whelps. Caught ‘em fencing parts from the back of a Dyonasis 357. Martinez, that idiot, walks right up to them demanding to see registration.”

“Because there’s no way in hell kids that young could afford a 357,” I mutter. “No observation?”

“None,” Haron says flatly. “Just stepped in like he owned the place.”

“So they scattered, like you’d expect,” Lang says. “But this guy.” He chuckles, then he looks at Haron with a questioning look. “Is he, uh...?

Haron nods. “He’s fine. Tell him.”

“Alright, alright.” The human man turns to me with a gleam in his eyes. Voice hushed, he says, “You know how maintenance never goes back to fix those damn cables, even though there’s like, ninety requests by now?”

I scoff. “ _Everyone_ knows that.”

“So this guy,” Lang says, pointing at Haron, “Takes to the rafters from above, yanks one clean off, and swings after ‘em like he’s Tarzan or something!” He howls with laughter. “Martinez was fucking _silent_ for a week straight!”

I look at Haron. “Tarzan?”

“Don’t ask _me_. Some human thing?” He shrugs.

“Fucking turians.” Lang shakes his head and smiles. “Vid about this jungle dude back on Earth. Can’t tell me you bugbirds don’t have any prehistoric vids.”

“We do,” I nod, “but nothing about swinging on derelict cables, though.” I grin at Haron. “That’s new, even for you.”

“You still didn’t answer, Vakarian,” Haron says, rolling his eyes. “What brings you out to these parts? Where you been these days?”

“Palaven,” I reply, dimly aware that I didn’t say ‘home.’ “Got a job back in Cipritine.”

“So then... you _aren’t_ still running with that Spectre woman,” he presses.

I stiffen. “We finished the mission we set after.”

Lang looks at us both, then stands. “I’mma... hit the head.” He leaves.

Seconds pass, each one marked by the staccato of dishes clinking in the backroom, hushed murmurs from the other tables, the scuffling of feet from the waiters. The seconds march on like the busy pedestrians outside the diner, stretching out like an event horizon.

“Why are you really here?”

I stay silent.

“No, wait.” Haron sighs. “I got a better question. Why’s it you look and sound ready to start a brawl as soon as I say the word ‘Spectre?’” He laughs, but there’s no mirth. “Or that human word ‘specter’ in her case, am I right?”

“How... multicultural of you,” I respond.

“I bet if I pull up the docking lists down in the stacks, I wouldn’t need six claws to count how many times you’ve been back,” he mutters. “When you left last time, we placed bets on if you’d ever show your face again. We were half-right, I guess.” He lets out a short breath. “So why now? Job hunting?”

I laugh, a short cutting noise. “No.” I lean back, feigning a relaxed pose. “Are you?”

He raises a brow plate, then scoffs. “Zakera’s a trash posting, but I’m not trading it for Omega.”

“I’m _not_...” A spark of inspiration hits me. “Haron. Remember when we were working that Saleon case?”

“How can I _not_?” he spits. “Slimy little piece of shit. All that evidence we gathered, doing things the ‘right way,” he air quotes, “just to choke on the docks last minute.” He looks up briefly as the waiter delivers our food. “You know the worst of it? Fucking salarian.”

I look at him incredulously.

“You know,” he insists with a shrug and a wry look. “The names.”

“Dammit, Haron,” I say, drawing out my words. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re racist or just lazy.”

He takes a bite. “Don’t go selling me steel windows,” he replies. “You hate paperwork as much as I do. Spirits, can you imagine if we had the same naming structure? Hey there, Palaven Hierarchy Cipritine West Prakas Vakarian Garrus, my name is Palaven Hierarchy Krepasine Cardis Row Haron Petrali.”

I chortle at that, the muscles strained from underuse. Spirits, haven’t thought about West Prakas in _years_. “Not to mention all the witness accounts,” I say with a chuckle. “Anyway, you remember how he started going by ‘Dr. Heart?’ But we weren’t given leave because he was off-world, light-years away?”

“Yeah,” he says, giving me a blank look. “Point?”

“He’s gone now,” I say with a wry grin. Ignoring Haron’s mild shock, I continue. “For a little while that alone made me consider being a Spectre.”

“But you’re not, Garrus,” he replies. “Just because you ran around with one, doesn’t–”

“–Grant me immunity, sure,” I finish. “But between that moment and now, let’s just say there are other ways of doing good in the universe than wearing a badge.”

I pick at my food, then take bites as I let that thought soak in. Wondering if he’d even consider it. Back then he was good. A bit of an ass, but had talent. And right now, I feel like I could use all the legitimate help I can get.

“Is that why you’re here?” he asks quietly. “Righting wrongs one crazed stiff at a time?” He takes another bite and scans the room. “Let’s say I’m just curious enough to know why, _one_ reason why you packed all your shit and left.”

“Remember the Battle of the Citadel?”

He nods.

“It wasn’t just geth.”

He looks at me, then cranes his neck back. “You still on that, huh?”

“They didn’t see what I saw, Haron.” I take another bite, watching his reaction. “And unlike C-SEC, or frankly the Council, I never changed my story about what happened.”

“You’re no liar, that’s for sure.” He chuckles darkly. “Run, maybe. Change the subject, or flat out not say anything, but you’re never one to lie. So is that what you’re doing now? Chasing down sentient spaceships?”

“Something like that,” I reply. “Primarch Fedorian granted me a task force to investigate and prepare the Hierarchy for the potential threat.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.” _Now for the hard part._ “It’s small right now.”

“It’s just you, isn’t it?” He glances back and waves at Lang as he heads back to the table. “You didn’t come all this way to drag me off my posting just to do something better. But,” he takes a bite. “If you think you’re going to distract me with a better job offer...”

I cock my head at him. “Did it work?”

His eyes flick back to Lang as he sits down. “No. But I’ll think on it.”

_More than I was expecting._ “See that you do.” I smile at the human officer. “So tell me more about this ‘Tarzan’ vid. I want a clear visual of how Haron looked in the moment.”

He laughs, and Haron flicks me a turian salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Di-chi is slang for greasy spoon-style diners that serve both chiralities. These places will always be popular with C-SEC; they're open at all hours, the food is quick and tasty (usually), and the waitstaff don't linger at tables or make small talk.


	11. Just Another Paperweight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It dawns on Shepard that she's met more hermetically sealed people than the average soldier.

**Shepard**

Eden Prime. The planet that changed my life before I even put a foot on the ground. The place I once called a paradise started as a brand new opportunity for humanity, then became a mad scramble for the survival of all sentient beings. And like a bad penny, we’re back, right where it all began.

With my hair redder and shorter, I feel somewhat closer to the same person that landed here a lifetime ago. Eden Prime always represented hope for humanity, new beginnings. After the geth attack, it meant a little more. Hope, resilience, defiance against all odds.

And for me, just maybe, a second chance.

We arrive at a small outpost, and on seeing the rolling hills and dusty-gold grass, memories flood through my head of that fateful day. It’s changed. The prefabs are different; newer shinier models replace the worn, bullet-riddled dwellings I ran past. The air isn’t hazy with explosions and gunfire. Instead, it’s cheerful, a deeper blue than on Earth, but no less striking. As James, Miranda, and I walk through the newly-constructed ExoGeni facility, I see colonists going about their day with a tedium that feels downright wholesome.

There’s a squeakiness to it all that sets my teeth on edge.

_“A pessimist is what an optimist calls a realist.”_

I screw my eyes shut briefly and march through the facility, looking around for our contact and certainly not for any geth or husks lurking in the corners.

“Lola, you alright? Seem a bit jumpier than usual.”

I glance over at the stout man and shrug. “Place brings back memories, and not all of ‘em are fun.”

“I hear that,” he replies, rolling his neck and shoulders. “I mean, we’re on Eden Prime about to go digging around for I dunno what, no? What could _possibly_ go wrong? Podríamos todos morir, pero where’s the fun in that?”

I suppress a frown. Either my mood’s contagious, or there’s something off about this place for him, too. “You going Negative Nancy on me, Vega? Besides,” I say with a lopsided smile. “Dying’s not so bad, as long as you know the right people.” I nudge the ice queen in emphasis.

Miranda rolls her eyes at me. “Glad to know billions of credits and countless hours of labor is a joke, Commander,” she replies. “If you’re finished, we need to meet with a Mr. Gavin Hossle for clearance.”

I rub a temple as I try to remember. “Why’s that name familiar?”

“Maybe he owes you money?” Vega offers. “That’s the only time I ever remember someone’s real name.”

“Makes me wonder how much Cortez owes you,” I respond. “Still, name rings a bell. What’s your intel, Miranda?”

“He’s worked with ExoGeni over the years as a freelance researcher with a specialty in Prothean technology. After creating a few new weapon designs and omni-tool modifications, he moved to full-time work on Eden Prime for this project, likely in the hopes of unearthing more Prothean tech.” She taps into her omni-tool and a second later I get a ping on mine. “That should give you a full dossier and a list of designs credited to him.”

I glance over the data and let out a low whistle. “Damn, he’s really proud of this omnitool. For that price, my cryos better carve out my name.”

At that moment, a sturdy, broad-shouldered woman comes up to us. “Excuse me, are you our contact? Alison Gunn?”

I turn to Miranda, who gives me a meaningful look back. “That’s me,” I say. “We have clearance to check out the dig, correct?”

“Supposed to,” the woman replies, a worried frown crossing her face. “Listen, I’ll level with ya. We’re in a real bind, and our boss had to go off-world. We were supposed to have an escort ready for you to go down in the dig site, but we ain’t heard back from our team. They haven’t checked in with us, and it’s been about a day longer than it should be.”

I sigh. “It’s never easy, is it? Is the escort down there too?”

“No ma’am, just a crew of diggers and eggheads, about sixteen total. We’re trying to round up a rescue team to see what came of them. Hoping it’s not a cave-in.”

“Or worse,” I finish. I glance at Vega and Miranda and get a slight nod from both in return. Looking back at the woman, I say, “Tell you what. We’re pressed for time, and we’re stronger than we look. How about we kill two birds with one stone and be your rescue team?”

“You look pretty strong as it is,” she shoots back, eying our side arms. “Look, I ain’t got the authority for you to go in there by yourselves, but our manpower ain’t what it used to be, either.”

“It’ll be far less if we don’t take the reins,” I reply. “Worst case scenario, they’re all dead, but you won’t send any more of your men down there. Best case, we rescue them, and you get to be the hero with your quick thinking. What have you got to lose?” I give her an easy grin.

“My job, if you guys eat it down there,” she says flatly. “I’ll give you the last known whereabouts. Don’t make me regret this, ma’am.

**~*~**

The three of us, now suited up for trouble, make our way down the roped off site. The area looks underwhelming to say the least. Nothing like the vids I grew up watching, remakes of old human movies about adventurers uncovering ancient alien artifacts, mistaking the unknown for magic.

I remember Liara thinking me silly for comparing her work to that. She dismissed the notion outright, saying that the work of an archeologist was safe, mundane, and at times isolated. The pursuit of knowledge and understanding was the true goal, and to her it was fulfilling.

To her anyway. Right now it looks like a bunch of rocks.

As we make our way further down the squared-off spiraling stairway, I feel the air shift and change. It’s cooler against my face, and the smell has a damp, metallic, not-quite-stagnant tinge. I scan the area looking for the source, finding none. Just a chiseled-away crack in the dirt, further down the dig site.

“You guys smell that?” I ask aloud.

“Yeah, Lola. Smells kind of like cenotes back on Earth. Weird if they have ‘em out here.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Hope you know how to swim, Commander.”

“Laugh it up, Vega,” I reply automatically. “It smells like it’s coming from that crack. Let’s make our way down there.”

We trek further down, deeper into the excavated ground. As we descend, I can’t help thinking about the long elevator ride to the underground ruins of Ilos. A strange melancholy hits me, and I once again wonder how many civilizations were lost to these damn bugs. What those last researchers went through to get a signal out.

We can’t be next.

“Shepard, I’m picking out some incredible readings,” Miranda says. “It’s as if there’s a city’s worth of infrastructure.”

“Damn, really?” I reply. _Was that why I thought of that place?_ “Maybe the diggers aren’t lost. If there’s something that big, maybe they’re just exploring.”

“After all your adventures, I’m surprised you still believe that,” she says, amused. “I’m quite certain ‘expect the worst’ is still your policy. Or when in doubt, add an explosion.”

“C’mon, not fair,” I say. “You pick up anything from the team?”

“Just the ancient readings. No signs of life yet.”

We get to the crack in the wall. On closer inspection, we see sections that look too regular, built with purpose. I brush off a thin layer of dirt and see smooth, brown metallic bricks peeking through the ground. Further through the crack, just wide enough for us to squeeze through, the damp smell gets stronger.

“Guess we’re going through here,” I say, taking a careful step through the crack. “James, you think you can squeeze through?”

“I’m hurt,” he replies. “I’m a lot more agile than I look.”

Luckily the thin passage widens as we trudge through the crevasse. The smell gets more metallic, stale and damp, and I feel the temperature drop significantly. Once we make it through, I take in the scenery. Cold and open, with Miranda’s defense drone as the only light source. No sound save for our breaths and a lonely echo of dripping water.

“Miranda, see if you can shine that thing overhead,” I order, indicating her drone.

She complies, and the cool-blue drone flickers brightly a few meters away from us. We follow suit after it, and I notice the ground turn from gritty dig-site dirt to hard construction, sturdy and regular. Marching in lockstep, we look for any signs of life, or more likely, any signs of death. As we near a corridor, Miranda’s drone catches at something familiar. I squint my eyes.

_You’ve got to be kidding me._

“Max light on that,” I order, feeling my pulse race with frantic energy. “That _can’t_ be what I think it is.”

The orb grows as brighter light washes over the walls. I gaze upward and see angled lines, smooth pipework and tubing, and oblong pods jutting out of neatly-placed compartments. Stasis compartments, and from the looks of it, at least half as many as on Illos.

“We’re in a bunker full of cryo pods,” I say aloud. “This is incredible.”

“No wonder it’s cold,” James quips.

“This is unbelievable, Commander,” Miranda replies, just as awed. “To think these were down here all this time. Imagine how our Prothean expert would feel about this discovery.”

 “Hell of a funeral parlor,” James says. “Makes you wonder what happened on this planet, no?”

“Pretty sure everyone died,” I remark.

“Well sure,” he says back. “But if they had time to lock themselves in all these boxes, they had to have gotten hit later on. They had enough warning to build something like this.”

_Come to think of it, the beacon was a rare find because it was intact._

“Vega, you’re onto something,” I reply, clapping him on the back. “Hell, maybe the Reapers never found this place, like how they didn’t find Illos. And if they didn’t find it, there must be tons of preserved technology here.” I turn to Miranda. “We should scan for a VI down here. If the Reapers didn’t hit this place, then maybe the Protheans left more than just a beacon left on this rock.”

“Or maybe the team found it?” Vega asks.

“Here’s hoping,” I say with a smile. “Let’s keep looking for them, too. They’re probably just as excited about this find as we are.”

We continue to walk through the bunker. Memories of the forgotten planet and the race to the Conduit flood my thoughts like a torrent. Ilos had hope in those hallways, projected across fifty thousand years. I don’t feel that down here, despite Vega’s theory. Instead, all I sense is a faint recollection, akin to déjà vu. As we explore the compound, fury sparks through my veins like poison.

_Panicked soldiers fighting to the last man. Watching in disgust as comrades fall, reduced to husks, reduced to slaves._

I bite the inside of my cheek and tamp out the thought. Figures this place would bring out too many bad thoughts. I met Ash here. That must be what’s triggering it. As we go further in, I notice the shift of unease in Vega’s shoulders and the slight twitch in Miranda’s mouth. _They feel it too._ Something’s not right here.

“Guns out,” I manage, voice just barely above a whisper.

They comply eagerly, and as if on cue, we hear faint shuffling further up a corridor. I signal hastily and take point, and Miranda snaps off the light on her drone.

We wait in stony silence as my eyes adjust and listen. More scuffling, no voices, and not coming any closer. I signal again for my companions to cover me, and I make my way toward the sound.

I inch toward the edge of a smaller hallway, the source of the sound, and peer around the corner. I breathe a sigh of relief. Just a mousy-looking human woman on the other side of the room, fussing with a datapad, back turned as she scans over the room.

“Hey,” I start, lowering my weapon. “You alright?”

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t even appear to hear us. I creep in closer, gripping my pistol tighter, partly to steady myself.

“Can you hear me?” I ask louder.

No answer. More fussing with that datapad. More silence.

I hold a hand up to my companions and walk closer, approaching the woman with caution. Maybe she’s deaf, maybe she has earplugs, _maybe_ that datapad has the latest DJ Flow-tilla tracks. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I put an arm out toward the woman as I step around to her front. “Hey,” I say.

She finally looks up at me as if in a daze. As her eyes gain focus I see a deep blue glow form, and transform into pronged monstrosities.

She lunges.

_Shit!_

I shoot her with no preamble, and she slumps to the floor. Holstering my pistol, I roll her body to the front.

“What the shit, Lola!?”

“Husk,” I answer, inspecting the body. “Or the start of one.” I peer into the weird eyes, looking for anything else of note. Finding nothing, I grab the datapad and toss it to Miranda. “See what you can make of that. This,” I point, “is too damn fresh to be a leftover from that first attack.” I pace through the room to secure the area.

“This doesn’t bode well for the others, Commander,” Miranda says. She skims through the datapad, and her face contorts in confusion. “Hang on a second. Shepard, you need to see this.”

I stride over to her. “Lay it on me. More bad news?” I take the datapad from her outstretched hand.

“It appears the team located a working power source,” she answers. “According to this, the device had an extremely low output, but remained intact. For over fifty thousand years.” She beams with excitement. “If this leads to unearthing working Prothean data, think of the possibilities.”

I scan through the findings, looking for any clue on the location, anything to narrow down the search. “Yeah,” I mutter. “When we found Vigil, he provided insight on the facility’s last mission. Their goal was to buy this cycle more time.”

“So what?” Vega asks. “We just ran into one of those zombie critters. I doubt she found any holy grails.”

“Maybe not, but remember our main objective from the Council,” I reply. “Find Rho devices and eliminate them.” I jut a thumb back at the dead body. “Worst-case, there might be one down here and she got the rough end of it. Best case, we get an intact VI that can tell us more about the last cycle.”

“It could just be Dragon’s Teeth from the last geth attack,” Miranda interjects.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Could be. Hell, that’s the bargain option.” I tap on the datapad. “No use speculating, though. Let’s keep moving, but keep sharp.”

We leave the room and navigate further into the labyrinthine bunker. Vega and I move cautiously, guns at the ready while Miranda hangs back, scanning the area with her omni-tool. We trek on, finding nothing, hearing silence, all the while this feeling of dread and anger sets in my bones.

We hear more shuffling.

I hold up a fist, then signal forward. We head towards the noise, and I try to pick out how many more I’m dealing with. The air around us suddenly feels clammy and stiff, like all the oxygen was sucked out and replaced with something sinister.

We reach a half-closed door, the sliding mechanism jammed for God knows how long. I take point and peek through the crack to get visual on the upcoming dance party.

“You getting any of this, Miranda?” I ask.

“I’m picking up _something_ ,” Miranda states with a hint of worry. “Faint, but appears to be a lifeform.”

“In there?” I glance back at her incredulously. “I guess these husks have a little life to them after all.”

_But not for long._

“Get ready,” I order. I search for a door console, digging into a deeper part of me to think like a Prothean. One rests alongside the wall, a dust-filled indentation filled with glyphs I don’t quite recognize. I jam my omni-tool against it and overload the console. With a metallic groan, the door comes to life and sides open.

_Now!_

The husks turn at the sound and rush us. In a flash, Miranda’s hands flare as she launches a deep purple haze at them while James fires off his pistol. I crack off my own blasts at the rest. As they rush us I see the cause. Dragon’s teeth, tucked away like a worst-kept secret. Miranda was right after all.

I ignore how human the husks look.

The last one falls at our feet. Too damn many of them. The Reaper shock troops no one ever asked for, and in the place where it all began. I crouch down and inspect the one before me, and grimace on seeing the Exogeni logo on her uniform. Such a goddamn waste.

“How many did she say there were?” I ask.

“…It’s them, Commander,” Vega replies. “That’s all of them.”

I rub the side of my face. “Damn it.”

Miranda steps forward with a stony expression. She raises a hand, bathed in a faint blue aura, and slams the dragon’s teeth against the back wall. “One less,” she says in a clipped tone.

We stand in silence in the small room, and feel the air return to what counts as normal. As my head clears, I’m relieved that it’s truly _clear._ The teeth must set off a signal similar to those Rho devices. I heave a sigh and shake myself out.

_Should probably just nuke this bunker and get it over with._

“Shepard,” Miranda interrupts my thoughts. “I’m still getting a life signal. Someone’s still alive.”

I turn, and she displays a faint readout, a tiny beacon of hope in this place. “Miranda, you always did have the best news,” I say with a smirk. “Let’s find our survivor.”

**~*~**

“The readings are strongest… here.” Miranda points a wall. “Perhaps there’s another room, or a parallel hallway.”

I use the scanner on my own omni-tool, picking out a makeshift map of the area. Whoever they are, they’re not a husk, but the biometrics are too low for comfort. But according to the scan, there’s only solid wall in our area. It can’t be from a hidden room. I glance up, and see more pods sticking out. I recheck Miranda’s omni-tool.

_You’ve got to be shitting me._

“Uh,” I start, looking at Miranda, completely dumbstruck. “You getting what I’m getting?”

She stares upward, a look of mirrored confusion on her face. “…Can’t be.”

“What’s going on?” Vega asks.

I try to think. Try to recall the place like a Prothean would. The Cipher never exactly gives full on memories, just the ability to ‘see’ a place or thing with their context. Like being in on an incredibly shitty joke. Or as Thane poetically said once, understanding the subtle shifts of red a hanar might glow if they encounter a lover that scorned them.

In the case of these hallways, I look at the row of cryo-coffins, and see something that wasn’t on Ilos. Ancient grooves and scratches, some forming patterns, others showing signs of struggle. And the rows aren’t quite symmetrical; they sit in the walls in a design that means… efficient. Haste.

_Gunning down the last of your kind as they turn one by one into husks. Scrambling into pods like your life, no, you race depended on it._

And while they aren’t my memories burned into me, I feel the slight warmth of my gun and know I can relate. No one wants to kill another of their kind. I check my readings again and look up. One pod, neater than the others with the most intricate scratch pattern of all.

A leader.

I turn toward the bulky man. “Hey, Vega. How good are you at climbing?”

**~*~**

An hour later, the three of us are looking dead at a jet-black, cryogenic, glorified meat locker. We’re still getting faint readings of activity, just enough to hope, not nearly enough to dream. We look at each other, Vega wearing more dust than the dirt on the ground, and Miranda and I spent from combining our biotics to fight gravity itself.

“Vega, I’m pretty sure there’s elcor bouncers lighter than you,” I mutter, catching my breath.

“Don’t be like that,” he says sullenly. “I swear it’s all muscle.”

“If we’re done here,” Miranda says, turning full ice queen, “I suggest we arrange for pick-up straight away. I don’t need to stress how valuable this specimen is.” She taps into her omni-tool. “Shepard, a find like this deserves Dr. T’Soni’s direct attention. Wouldn’t you agree?”

A slight frown crosses my face. “I _agree_ , but how ‘direct’ are we talking here? I got the impression that she’s a little busy.”

“Too busy for this?” she scoffs, pointing at the coffin. “The find of a lifetime?”

“T’Soni,” James says thoughtfully.

“What’s that, Vega?” I ask.

All at once his face goes hard in a way I’d never associate with the man. “Nothing, Commander.”

_I’ll have to pry that out of him later._

I tap into my comm to arrange for pickup, then turn back to Miranda. “Another glorified paperweight. Between whatever’s in here and that shitty orb back in the lab, I’d say we’ve got some bona fide research to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protheans are empaths; even when they're asleep, they emit near undetectable surges of neuroactivity that other empathic sentients could detect in theory. Shepard, while not truly empathic, can feel it because of how much the beacon warped her neuro-patterns.


End file.
